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TRADE MARK REGISTERED 


No. 33 




Translated SjyE.liseL.Lat'hrop 

With Illu5lrriti°n5 

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\oRTHniOTon(o7^7Bwmm. 

JOSEPH J. LITTLE, Receiver. 


iccimH Mnnthlv. Subscription, $9.00. January, 1893. 





























































































































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FATAL MISUNDERSTANDING 

\ 

AND OTHER .STORIES 


BY 



f 

Translated by Elise L. Lathrop 



WITH FORTY-FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS 


NEW YORK 

WORTHINGTON COMPANY 



.. / 3 7/y 


JOSEPH J. LITTLE, RECEIVER 

747 BROADWAY 

1893 


Copyright, 1893, by 

WORTHINGTON CO. 

JOSEPH J. LITTLE, RECEIVER 


Press of J. J. Little & Co. 
Astor Place, New York 



CONTENTS. 


PAGE 


1 . A FATAL MISUNDERSTANDING, . i 

II. UNITED IN DEATH, 51 

III. AN OLD PICTURE, 81 

IV. THE ROMANCE OF AN OLD HOUSE, . . 116 

V. MY COUSIN URSULA 197 

VI. DANGEROUS GROUND, 243 















































































1 . 


A FATAL 

MISUNDERSTANDING. 



“ Cousin Ulrich ! 
Cousin Ul- 
rich ! ” called a 
fresh, girlish 
voice behind 
me, just as I 
was going out of the 
garden gate ; and 
turning, I saw peep- 
ing over the green 
hedge, my cousin Frida’s 
blonde head. 

Frida was really more to 
me than cousin. Her pretty 
little red lips, just a year 
before, in the beech arbor down in the garden, 
had given me her consent to be my wife, a 
fact which caused a storm in the forester’s 
pleasant house. For uncle scolded about 
foolish children, and would hear nothing of 
a student suitor, while my dear kind aunt 
officially took her husband’s side, but secretly 
she comforted us, and pictured to us in the 
most glowing colors the delights of such a 
short time of probation, which only lasted 
hree hundred and sixty-five days. 


2 


A Fatal Misunderstanding. 


For it was agreed that if after a year I still was of the 
same mind, and had by that time taken my degree of 
doctor of medicine as well as passed the governmental 
examination, I could again present myself at my uncle’s. 
This was the stern man’s ultimatum. “ And,” he added, 
taking from his lips the pipe, which he had smoked so 
vigorously that the blue clouds issued as regularly from it 
as from a steam-engine, “ and, my boy, I now expect from 
you that you will not put all sorts of notions in Frida’s head, 
with wasting paper on love-letters. After receiving one of 
such nonsensical epistles, no woman is responsible for her 
actions for a week : until she has answered it she loses her 
keys, lets the soup burn, and when she has finally posted 
her reply, she begins to look for the answer the very next 
day, runs to meet the postman, and cries her eyes red if 
the longed-for letter does not arrive just when she expects 
it. I wish no such doings ; let this be the end of it.” 

What could I do ? I promised that I would fulfil his 
request, and before I departed Frida and I once more 
exchanged vows of eternal fidelity in the arbor, and it 
seemed as though her great blue eyes would never cease 
shedding tears. I tried to console her, and took leave of 
her with as heavy a heart as a young student, head over 
ears in love as I was with my little blonde cousin, could 
have. I was a man of my word, however. I did not write 
to Frida, although I cannot deny that at first I daily pre- 
pared an epistle ; but, to my honor be it said, I destroyed 
it every time. Yet this one-sided correspondence, which 
never reached its destination, gave me some satisfac- 
tion, for I poured out all the feelings that made my 
heart seem full to overflowing. That, of course, I made use 
of all kinds of little permissible artifices, no one can blame 
me for. I wrote to my dear aunt and future mother-in- 
law a long birthday letter, for instance : up to this time I 


A Fatal Misunderstanding. 


3 


had contented myself with sending her merely a birthday 
card. Now I wrote page after page, and asked all kinds 
of questions, and of Frida casually, for uncle read all his 
wife’s letters. I received an answer to this letter, but 
unfortunately it was a “ song without words,” for aunt 
contented herself with sending me a fine box of sausages 
freshly made, together with her love. “ No time to write,” 
was added on the outside of the package. 

The sausage proved to be as delicious as was to be 
expected from such an excellent housekeeper as my aunt, 
but yet this answer did not wholly satisfy me. In my 
need, I applied to my uncle for his advice in an affair 
in which I alone could know what was to be done. 
This time came a letter. Boy, do not trouble me ! I 
know nothing about it ; ask your professor,” was about the 
extent of the letter. And a last attempt to hear something 
of Frida through her brother had no better result, for the 
ten-year-old boy, to whom I wrote about a young puppy 
that I pretended to be very anxious to have, did indeed 
answer my letter, but his whole epistle was filled with 
expressions of regret that all the puppies were given away. 
I really would not have known what to do with the animal 
had I received it. But not a word of Frida. 

I submitted with a sigh to the inevitable, and the year 
passed more quickly than I could have believed possible. 
Now I was an M.D. I had passed all the examinations 
cu?n laude, had received the post of second assistant at the 
Imperial University Clinic, and returned with full sails set 
to the house of my uncle, to weigh anchor in the harbor 
of happiness. 

But, alas ! my little cousin and secret Jiancde met me 
with a gravity, a coldness, denied by her natural manners 
any more beautiful relation to me, and was so markedly 
my cousin, only my cousin, that there was nothing left for 


4 


A Fatal Misunderstanding. 



me but to remain, with as much calmness as possible, al- 
though with secret vexation, her cousin and nothing more. 

She was not unkind to me ; oh, no indeed ! No cousin 
in the world could have been more charming ; but she 
avoided everything that could recall the past in the most 
remote manner, and the arbor in the garden no longer 
seemed to exist for her ; but so much the more for me. 
I sat there half the 
afternoon, and in 
the evening some- 
times until mid- 
night, my heart 
beating violently 
when a filmy white 


gown shone through the bushes, and a bright voice trilled 
a song. It did not sound as though her heart were in it, 


A Fatal Misunderstanding . 


5 


and it pained me when the dainty figure which I fancied 
would enter the arbor, turned away shortly, and vanished 
down one of the shady paths. 

Uncle and aunt watched me anxiously ; for they could 
see plainly that I was cut to the heart by her manner. I 
did not show this to cousin Frida, and this concealment 
caused me all the more pain. 

Up to this day the girl had avoided any tete-a-tite with 
me, so I was all the more surprised when I suddenly heard 
her call my name. 

“ Are you going to the Red House ? If it is not disagree- 
able to you, cousin ” — she always laid special stress upon 
this horrible “ cousin ” — “ I will come with you. Father 
has just told me that old Wendenburg’s wife is ill, and 
mother has given me drops for her ; she has worked in our 
house for years, you know, so I must go down to see her, 
and I so dislike going through the woods alone.” 

With these words she had come through the gateway, 
and now stood beside me in her light summer gown, which 
she had raised somewhat that its spotless whiteness might 
not come in contact with the damp forest-path. She wore 
a black lace scarf over her head, and her lovely face 
looked out doubly charming from the dark wrap. For the 
first time it occurred to me that she looked somewhat ill, 
and that her pretty red mouth wore a suffering expression 
which I had never seen a year before. I was startled, and, 
forgetting all else, was about to ask her if she felt ill. 
But her eyes gazed indifferently past me down the dark 
forest-path, and with childish delight she swung a little 
basket, so that my sympathetic words remained unspoken. 

“ You flatter me greatly, my dear cousin,” I replied. “ I 
would indeed spare you the long walk, and, in my capacity 
of young physician eager for patients, relieve you of your 
visit to the sick-bed, but ” 


6 


A Fatal Misunderstanding . 


She shrugged her delicate shoulders impatiently. “ I, 
too, thought of this, and spoke of it to father,” said she; 
“ but the old woman is peculiar, and she hates doctors, 
young doctors especially ; she would not take the drops 
from your hand, and father wishes me to go.” 

“ So I am really sufficient protection against tramps, 
burglars, or whatever you seem to be afraid of ? Indeed, 
this confidence ” 

“ Why not ? ” she interrupted me, and started to walk 
down the path. “You are a large, strong man, and my 
cousin besides.” 

I walked behind her, and — who will blame me ? — was 
angry with the whims and caprices of girls in general, and 
my cousin in particular. I should have preferred to turn 
and go back, had not an uncontrollable curiosity drawn 
me to the “ Red House.” 

So we wandered through the forest, she still ahead, 
softly trilling a song, as though she were the happiest girl 
in the world. 

“ Halt ! ” she cried suddenly. “ We had almost passed 
it.” 

“ What ? ” I asked. 

“ The grave under the oak-tree.” 

“ What grave, cousin ? ” 

“ Oh, pray do not ask. You have a whole pamphlet in 
your pocket which tells you the history of the person 
buried there. Father, who gave it to you, told me to 
bring you here before we went to the Red House : now 
come.” 

She held the branches of a pair of magnificent dark 
green firs apart, and pointed to a small path hardly to be 
distinguished. I had difficulty in following her, for the 
bushes closed behind her light form like violent waves, 
and struck me in the face as though to bar my passage. 


A Fatal Misunderstanding . 


7 


Suddenly I found myself in a large opening surrounded 
by dark firs, while in the midst was a magnificent oak, 



spreading its branches 
out over a heap of stones 
overgrown with moss 
and wild ivy. The 
deepest stillness pre- 
vailed around us — the 
lonely solitude and 
silence of the forest ; 
only in the firs was 
there a soft whispering 
and murmuring, and at 
times a yellow leaf fell 
from the oak, and re- 
mained resting upon the 
dark ivy. 

I went up to the 
mound and seated my- 
self on a bench beside it, while I put aside the ivy to 
read the inscription upon an iron tablet. Was this where 
lay our ancestor, the strange old man who - had been more 



8 


A Fatal M isunder standing . 


feared than loved by his family, and who had died alone 
and deserted, like a wounded lion in his den ? 

“ Frida, who lies buried here ? ” I asked, for the once 
gilded letters had become black, and it was hard to decipher 
the inscription. But there was no answer ; she stood with 
her back to me, and gazed through an opening in the forest 
at the ducal castle which looked down upon us, stately and 
dignified, from the wooded castle hill. The windows 
sparkled in the sunlight, and the white walls shone almost 
dazzlingly. It seemed within gunshot to me, and yet we 
had walked for half an hour. 

“ My fairest cousin, pray hear my question, and tell me, 
does the strange huntsman, our great-great-uncle, lie here ? ” 

She turned and shook her head. “I do not know,” said 
she then, shortly ; her eyes rested upon the mound, and 
suddenly she added, in a softer, completely changed voice : 
“It is a matter of indifference who rests there, but it is a 
lovely place to sleep one’s last sleep, is it not ? It must be 
so sweet to dream where the trees whisper above us and 
the sunbeams peep through the branches.” 

“A true woodsman’s grave, Frida. I cannot blame him 
if he wished to be buried here, instead of forming one of a 
row of graves in the churchyard.” 

“Have you read the inscription?” the girl interrupted 
me. “ Oh, do not trouble yourself. I know the lines, by 
heart.” And she recited solemnly : 

“We scarcely know each other 
Here in this world, where ever 

The sun of life doth briefly shine for all. 

But some day, when our tears have ceased to fall, 

Shall we meet, ne’er again to sever.” 

Then she hastily turned away. 

“ Very pretty, Frida ; but it seems to me it is hardly an 
epitaph for a hunter.” 



A Fatal Misundersta7idi?ig. 


“You are probably right,” said she, and broke a few 
leaves from the ivy ; then she walked on before me down 
the dark forest-path. 

When my mother visited my uncle, in his home in the 
Harz Mountains, with me on my vacations, in the evening, 


in the cosey family circle, the talk 
was often of a great-great-uncle who 
had died in the middle of the last 
century. And whether my grand- 
mother, or old Aunt Rieka, who was 
usually prose personified, my uncle, 
or the aged castellan of the ducal 
castle, who sometimes came in dress- 
ing-gown and slippers for a little chat, told of him, there 
was always a veil of true poetry, like a fragrant green 
wreath, about this figure, who appeared but vaguely in the 
frame of the narrative. For, of course, none of the living 
members of the family had known him, and only my very 
aged great-grandmother remembered having seen him 


IO 


A Fatal Misunderstanding . 


once, when he lived like a hermit in the Red House with 
an old factotum for servant, who was both cook and com- 
panion. 

“ I remember it as well as if it were to-day,” she used 
to say. “ I sat on the garden wall, eating grapes. I was 
perhaps eight or nine years old at that time ; it was a cold 
October day, there had been a frost the night before, and 
that was why the grapes tasted so sweet. Then a man 
came out of the castle garden gate, slowly and thought- 
fully ; he was a strange-looking man, his clothes were old- 
fashioned but well kept, and his hair and beard silver 
white. I gazed at him in astonishment, and watched him 
drawing nearer. He walked along past our wall, and just 
as he reached the spot where I was leaning over curi- 
ously, he glanced up, and I do not remember how he 
looked, except that he had tears in his eyes, and there 
were tears hanging to his white beard ; so, involuntarily 
and very respectfully, I bade him ‘ good day.’ Whether he 
returned my greeting I do not remember. But half an 
hour later the news flew through the little town that Prince 
Christian was dead, and the friend of his youth, from 
whom he had so long been estranged, had stood beside 
his death-bed and had closed his eyes after becoming rec- 
onciled to him.” 

Thus my grandmother would tell. And then there was 
much vague speculation, and useless putting together of 
heads, to learn the reason why two who had been such 
ardent friends in youth should have become so suddenly 
estranged. A woman’s name was mentioned in connec- 
tion, but no one knew anything definite, and but one thing 
was certain ; the subject had quarrelled with the prince, and 
often as the latter held out a hand of reconciliation it was 
repulsed with a coldness bordering on scorn, while the 
prince’s patience and tolerance never came to an end ; but 


A Fatal Misunderstanding. 


i 


when the head forester, grown old and gray, wished to retire 
from office, the Red House was given him for his own, 
and the head forester transferred to a new building nearer 
the town. And the hermit, who usually roughly and repel- 
lently refused all kindnesses from the prince, this time 
made an exception, and thankfully accepted the privilege 
of ending his days there. After his death the house re- 
turned to the ownership of the prince, but, in accordance 
with a clause of his will, it remained unoccupied ; the 
rooms were left as they had been during the owner’s life- 
time, and but seldom did the arched hall contain a gay 
band of hunters when the hunt was just in that neighbor- 
hood, and the time for lunch was too limited to allow of 
returning to the castle, a mile away. 

And gradually interest in the man about whom, in his 
time, the whole country had shaken their heads, died away. 
The old people died, and the young ones were interested 
in different matters. Nor had I thought for a long time of 
the great-uncle long since buried in the green Harz forest. 

But the evening before, my uncle had suddenly turned 
the conversation to this man, and, after talking for some 
time, had handed me a packet of yellowed papers, and 
had said to me in an almost solemn tone that I might read 
them in the place where these lines had once been written — 
in the Red House : it was the story of the dead man’s life. 

“I have not long had the manuscript in my possession,” 
he had added ; “ it came into my hands by a strange 
chance. The pastor in Bergrode — but I will tell you that 
another time.” 

And there, at the end of the shady path, in the heart 
of the silent forest, rose the solitary house. It was squat 
and ugly, with its round, slated towers, and irregular 
rows of windows. A worn flight of sandstone steps led 
up to the lofty entrance door, and at each side a prime- 


12 


A Fatal Misunderstanding. 



val, gnarled linden, with a stone bench beneath it. It 
might have been built for centuries, this solitary hunting 
box, and was a witness of the fondness for hunting of 

long-past genera- 
tions. 

My cousin now 
walked quickly 
ahead of me under 
t h e tall beeches. 
The sunbeams fall- 
ing between the 
leaves shed a golden 
light upon her lithe 
figure, and I paused 
and watched her as- 
cend the moss-cov- 
ered steps, the old 
house forming a 
charming back- 
ground to her grace- 
ful form. A magnificent pair of ant- 
lers were fastened above the high, 
iron-bound door, on one side of which 
, , v was fastened a small owl, whose feath- 
ers had been torn and tumbled by 
wind and storm. The windows, divided into numerous little 
panes, gazed sleepily and dimly out at the luxuriant foliage. 
Young beech and hazel saplings had grown close up to the 
old walls, and peeped curiously in at the windows, barring 
the sunbeams all entrance ; there was a magical peace 
about this old hunter’s box. 

Frida had grown impatient. “Are you coming?” she 
cried, and let the iron knocker on the door fall upon the 
metal plate, so that the sound echoed loudly in the house. 


A Fatal M is understanding . 


J 3 


A flock of daws issued from the tower, circled round it in 
alarm, and then flew up into the blue sky with loud calls, 
while from within came the hoarse bark of a dog, and then 
a joyous whine behind the door. 

“ Diana ! Diana ! ” cried the girl softly, “ go and tell your 
master he has guests.” 

Soon we heard a shuffling tread, a key was turned in the 
creaking lock, and a bent old man, with silvery hair and 
peculiarly sharp eyes, which at once proved him a hunter, 
opened the door. 

“ This is my Cousin Ulrich, Wendenburg ! He wishes 
to see the Red House,” began Frida, crossing the threshold. 
“ Father asks you to unlock the old gentleman’s room for 
him. I come to see your wife ; I hope she is not seriously 
ill.” 

“ Thank you,” replied the old man crossly, without hon- 
oring me with a glance, although he opened the door some- 
what wider to allow me to enter. We passed into a large 
hall, richly decorated with antlers. Over a high mantel 
hung the time-blackened oil portrait of a dissipated-looking 
man in mediaeval hunting costume ; pictures of dogs’ heads 
and a prancing horse, with wildly floating mane, looked 
down from the wall on either side of him. 

“ Hackelmberg, the wild huntsman,” declared Frida 
casually, and signed for me to follow the old man, who was 
already ascending some creaking stairs. The dog raced 
after him as if mad, and sprang up on him as he now 
paused to unlock a low door in an arched niche of the 
thick walls. I stooped and followed Frida into the room. 

“ There, I have brought you here,” said she, “as I 
promised father. And now, Wendenburg, come to your 
wife. I have some drops for her ; it is the old story again, 
is it not ? ” 

The old man made no answer ; he brought forward a 


14 


A Fatal Misunderstanding. 


couple of chairs, and drew his coat-sleeve over the inlaid 
top of the massive table. 

“ If the gentleman needs me I am in the back room,” 
he murmured; “ my wife is sleep- 
ing now, and I do not want to 
awaken her. I will call the young 
lady when she wakes.” Then 
the door closed behind him, and 
we were alone. 

At first Frida made a hasty 
movement, as though she would 
hurry after him ; I saw her pale 
face flush crimson, then she came 
back, and seated herself in an 
arm-chair standing near the 
stove. She closed her eyes, and every feature of her face 
seemed to say : “ How tiresome and disagreeable, but I 
am not afraid of a tete-a-tete with you. No, indeed; it is 
a matter of perfect indifference to me.” 

Matters had turned out strangely, and now it was 
probably time for me to ask : “ Frida, why are you so cold 
to me ? What have I done to you ? Do you no longer 
love me ? ” All this was on my lips ; and yet I was silent, 
and turned away offended ; she looked so ice cold, so un- 
approachable, and my conscience was clear. Besides, a 
friend had recently told me that it was well to train a 
woman before marriage, and if I spoke first now I would 
rue it all my life if she did finally become my wife. 

My wife ! I sighed deeply, and glanced once more at 
her, and she too was looking up from under her long 
lashes, but she closed her eyes, as though in terror, when 
our glances met. “ Good ! I will act as though I were 
alone here,” I resolved. 

We were in a moderate-sized, high-vaulted room ; 



A Fatal Misunderstanding. 


J 5 


through the deep-set windows the light fell but sparsely. 
A simple bed against a side wall, a writing-desk by one 
window, an arm-chair near the stove, a pipe stand, and a 
chess-table with chessmen, a clock in an old-fashioned 
carved box, the heavy oak table, and a few chairs, were 
the furniture of the apartment, severe and. simple. 

I shivered in the cold, damp room ; I opened a window, 
and let the warm autumn air stream in ; then I took a 
goblet from the ledge along the wall, and filled it with the 
wine with which aunt had thoughtfully filled my pocket 
flask. It was a beautiful glass, with hunting scenes carved 
upon it; and an inscription: “To his friend, Henry 
Mardefeld. Prince Christian v. S. B.” 

Where were the hands which had once held this glass — 
the lips which had once touched it ? Dead ; dead, as the 
friend who had once given it. Does not everything in this 
world perish ? 

I hesitated to drink ; it seemed to me as though in so 
doing I would touch the lips of a corpse ; then I gulped 
the contents down. And with the fiery wine an almost 
mystic mood came over me. Madame Poetry entered, drew 
a chair for me in front of the old writing-desk, and spread 
out the yellowed papers before me. I prepared to read, 
when there was a slight movement behind me, and I 
turned my head and looked in Frida’s eyes. There 
was a silent petition in them, but the little mouth was 
closed defiantly ; yet I understood her, and asked quickly : 

“ Do you know the contents of these pages ? ” 

She silently shook her blonde head. 

“ Shall I read aloud ?” 

She hesitated to reply, and I saw how she struggled with 
herself. Then she nodded, and it almost seemed to me 
that she accorded me the honor of being listened to most 
ungraciously. She nestled in the arm-chair again, and, 


i6 


A Fatal Misunderstandi?ig. 


avoiding my eyes, gazed out at the trees. Her slender 
white figure stood out charmingly against the green twilight 
of the room ; the spicy odor of pine-trees came through the 
window, the shadows of the leaves tossing in the breeze 
fell upon the paper, while all around was solemn stillness — 
only the tick of a wood-worm at regular intervals, and 



from the forest the occasional cry of a vulture. And now 
I lowered my eyes to the paper, and read as follows : 

“ The Sunday after Ascension Day , Anno D., 1726. 

“ Before me lies your letter, my darling John, and in 
every stroke of the pen I read the love and friendship 


A Fatal Misunderstanding. 


l 7 


you cherish for your friend, although long years have 
passed since we saw each other’s face. You also write 



“ Old friend, I could tell you in few words : I have 
never known how to be happy. 

“ But see, out there, my old James has a blonde-haired 
little girl visiting him ; his grandchild, and she sits under 
the linden-tree in the sunlight and sings. 

“ You surely never believed, John, that I could be 
poetic. You have heard many a hunter’s oath from my 
mouth, but no poesy ; I do not believe that I could write 
it even, for my tongue is an awkward member. But deep 
in my heart strange melodies have rung ; flowers have 
bloomed, and bells chimed, but no one can see or hear 
this. Ah, yes, if it had been different ; if I, too, could have 

flattered and smiled, then 

“ You ask about the death of Prince Christian — our 
Christel, as we used to call him. Yes, John, we were rec- 
onciled in his death hour — united by death. In life we 
were separated, John, for long, gloomy years, and what 


i8 


A Fatal Misunderstanding . 


separated us was a grave in which lay buried the happiness 
of our youth. 

“ The wild doves under the lindens still coo, may the 
devil take them. I was about to rise and tell them to take 
themselves off — when, what is that girl singing ? 

A faint, sweet song of faith and love, 

How fair, how pure was my dearest, my dove — 

A song of love, of love only. 

In the bright moonlight, by the stream, 

Two blue eyes — it was a dream, 

A dream, and I am left lonely ! 

“ John, that is just it ; lonely, lonely ! No wife and no 
friend ; and yet they say I have no feeling, that my heart 
is harder than the rock of our mountains. It is true, 
John, I could not complain and moan at that time ; it was 
a misery too great to complain of. 

“ How did it happen ? 

“ Oh, John, you remember the last time that we three — 
Prince Christel, you, and I — were together. You were 
already installed as priest over a fat parish, and your 
manners had already become somewhat ecclesiastical. I 
had not long worn the green forester’s coat of our duke’s 
service ; our princely friend had indeed cared for us as a 
true friend, for we were young in years for such offices ; he 
himself was about to start on his grand tour of foreign 
courts. 

“ You surely remember how he threw the glass from 
which we had drunk our parting toast into the water, and 
said, ‘ No one’s lips shall touch it again ’ ; and how we 
kissed each other, and evermore swore friendship, and that 
nothing in this world should separate us from each other. 

“You must remember it, John. I, at least, fancy that I 
can still see his enthusiastic young face. Never later was 
I so convinced of what a noble, handsome young man he 


A Fatal Misunderstanding. 


*9 


was. How did you look in contrast, John ? Like a well- 
fed donkey beside a thoroughbred horse. And I, spare 
me the comparison. Beauty was never my strong point. 
But enough of that. On that evening, for the last time, 
we clasped each other’s hands in true friendship — it van- 
ished, perished ! Through the fault of whom ? A woman ! 

“ A woman ! Search the history of the world, John, 
from Adam to the present day, the cause of evil is woman : 
and a woman’s beauty is like poison, intoxicates the senses, 
and makes the heart ache. When friends are estranged, 
family happiness ruined, wedded pairs separated, war 
raging over the country — cherchez la femme j oil est la 
feinmel And, voila , she can always be found, guilty or 
innocent — evil in the world is woman. And if it is true, 
as you firmly believe, that there is a devil who goes 
about the world seeking whom he may devour, he surely 
goes in the form of a beautiful woman. Calmly put aside 
all thoughts of horns and cloven hoofs, John ! 

“ It was near Christmas when I saw her for the first 
time. A storm raged in the mountains, so that it seemed 
as though the wild hunt once more passed through the 
Harz forest. The wind whistled and howled around 
my old owl’s nest, as though all the evil spirits sang a 
song of triumph. A rain mingled with sleet beat against 
the barred shutters of my room. I had just taken off my 
wet boots, for 1 had but just returned with gun and dogs ; 
the devil knows, vexed enough, without having fired a 
shot. 

“ Then there was a knock, and since no one ever came 
to my lonely house in the evening, and least of all in such 
weather, I told the dogs to be silent, went out, and opened 
the door, which the storm immediately tore from my hold. 

“ There she stood on the threshold, John ; had I but 
imagined whom I let in ! A woman, so regal, slender, and 


20 


A Fatal Misunderstanding. 



proud, and yet with her beautiful 
head bowed so humbly, while the 
storm pulled at her garments, and 
threw back the veil from the 
white face, and let me gaze into a 
pair of blue eyes — those eyes — 
John ! 

“ ‘ Shelter,’ she murmured, ‘and 




A Fatal Misunderstanding . 


2 1 


help. The carriage lies broken near by on the road. 
The coachman has remained with the horses.’ I opened 



the door of my room, and told her to enter. She stooped 
under the low doorway, and as she stood near me, the 
blonde head reached only to my chin. I was always 


22 


A Fatal Misunderstanding. 


awkward with women, yet her grave lips smiled when 
she saw how I tried to be polite. 

“ ‘ Thank you, monsieur ! ’ said she, and threw off her 
mantle ; then she took her wet veil from her head, seated 
herself in the arm-chair by the fire, and petted my Caesar : 
he laid his head confidingly on her knees, and she stroked 
him with her delicate little. white hand. I stood absorbed 
in thought before her, and stared at her. It seemed 
strange to me to see a woman sitting there in my lonely 
room. Strange, and yet so sweet, I thought it ; and I 
forgot everything in gazing at such a charming picture, 
until she begged me to send her coachman assistance. 

“ Then in alarm and confusion I hurried out, and told 
James to take good care of the stranger’s horses, and to 
give the coachman food and beer, while I told James’ wife 
to prepare a bed in one of the rooms of the upper story 
for the lady, as it proved that the carriage had been too 
severely damaged for her to continue her journey in such 
a storm. 

“ And thus it came about that I did not feel at home 
in my own room, so embarrassed and confused was I ; but 
when I made a great effort and stood before her, she 
thanked me sweetly, and her lovely eyes gazed up at me 
until they fell before mine, and her lily-white face flushed. 
And so we sat together in silence, while the storm raged 
outside, and shook the branches of the old lindens. 

“ I am an awkward fellow. I could not talk. I only 
looked at her ; and restrained the dog, who had not left 
her side, and now lay stretched at her feet. But she 
scarcely noticed it. She kept her eyes closed, and her 
white forehead wore a frown, as though her thoughts were 
painful. Then James’ wife came and brought food and 
wine, but she scarcely touched them, and then expressed a 
desire to rest. 


A Fatal M isunder'standing. 


2 3 


“ But I found no rest. I ran out in the storm and rain, 
and stared up at her bright window, and half the night I 
wandered about uneasily ; and then I would speak to her, 
long speeches, in an undertone, so that the dogs stared at 
me in surprise. 

“ But the next day, the beautiful bird had flown with 
the dawn, before I rose, early as that was. On the table 
in her room I found an open note, in which, in dainty 
writing, were the words : 

“ ‘ Friederika von Babenberg thanks you for your hos- 
pitality, and hopes that she can repay you.’ 

“ The note still lies in a drawer of my desk, with other 
trifles, curls, ribbons, and dried flowers, faded, and crum- 
bling to dust. 

“ Now I knew that she was the daughter of old Gen- 
eral Babenberg, of Mansdorf, scarce an hour’s ride dis- 
tant, and from James I learned that she was returning 
from the burial of her brother, a wild fellow who had 
fallen in a duel. Now the large estate would fall, after 
the death of her old, almost childish father, to a distant 
branch of the family, and then she would have to leave 
Mansdorf. The coachman, who told this, had added that 
he should like to know what would become of her, for a 
poor baroness was not besieged by lovers. 

“ But from that time I had not a peaceful moment. 
Wherever I looked, the slender woman in the dark mourn- 
ing garb stood before me ; wherever I went, she walked 
beside me, and gazed at me with her blue eyes, and at 
night her pale face bent over my couch. Love had over- 
taken me, with all its magic power ; I was twenty-four 
years old, John, and until then had never looked into the 
eyes of any woman. And it came about — the incredible, 
scarcely-to-be-hoped-for event occurred : Friederika von 
Babenberg became my betrothed. 


24 


A Fatal Misunderstanding. 


“ Oh, it all came about naturally ; no magic arts, no 
witchery, yet it seemed to me the loveliest wonder of the 
world, in the moment when I held her in my arms beside 
her sick father’s bed. ‘ Friederika, all my life long I will 
thank you.’ I could say nothing more — everything else 
seemed small and pitiful in such a solemn hour. And she, 
too, must have felt that I would have given my life for her. 

“ So I thought. 

“And now peace came over me again, for I knew that 
she was mine. And so I wandered in the forest day after 
day, still with the rapturous thought that it needed but a 
quarter of an hour’s walk for me to be able to look in her 
wonderful, mysterious eyes. And she sat at home, by her 
sick father’s bedside, and when I entered the dark cham- 
ber where the curtains were drawn, her eyes sparkled, 
and two delicate white hands were held out to me. 

“ Enough of this, old friend, enough : I have never had 
a gift for sentiment, as fashion then demanded ; it was not 
in me. Life in God’s free, open world of nature is not 
conducive to it. My thoughts came direct from my heart, 
like the shining white trunks of our native beeches, and as 
clear as bracing mountain air. I said what I wished, with- 
out hints or turns of speech. To be sure, the air here 
strikes many a one sharply in the face, but I did not notice 
that : I was accustomed to it ; it refreshed my head and 
heart. 

“ His old Excellency Babenberg died very shortly, and 
one week after his death I led Friederika home as my 
wife. Why should we delay ? The death of the old man 
was a release from nameless tortures, and Friederika longed 
for a home. She could no longer remain in her father’s 
house. 

“ In the castle chapel of Mansdorf the clergyman united 
us. A strange wedding indeed ! It was to be &t twilight. 


A Fatal Misunderstanding . 


2 5 



and the day seemed eternal to me. I took my gun and 
wandered through the woods, thinking that thus I would 
kill time better, and in pursuit of a wild cat which I had long 
been tracking, missed the appointed hour. I had but time 
to throw myself, just as I was, upon my horse’s back, and 
so arrived at my bride’s home after she had been waiting 
for me for some time. 

“ She was in the large drawing-room where a few days 

before her father’s 
coffin had stood. 
The black crape 
still hung from the 
gilded wainscot- 
ing, and I fancied 
that I could still 
perceive the odor of 
wax candles and 
dead flowers. Be- 
hind her I saw the 


two unmarried sisters of her late father dressed in the robes 
of the cloister for ladies of high rank to which they be- 


26 


A Fatal M isunder standing. 


longed. They were stiff, cold, almost hostile to look 
upon were they, in their flowing robes. In truth, strange 
wedding guests ! 

“ But I noticed them but casually, for my eyes rested 
upon Friederika as though charmed ; she looked pale, 
paler than ever ; her slight figure was clad in a black gown, 
dark myrtle in her golden hair ; a more beautiful woman 
than she, has surely never man seen. 

“ I forgot that I had come in rough hunting dress ; no 
word of excuse for my lateness came from my lips, 
although she raised her eyes questioningly and reproach- 
fully to me. Hesitatingly at first, then with nervous haste, 
she held out her hand to me, and we walked rapidly to the 
chapel. Behind us the old canonesses whispered, I fan- 
cied about my dusty hunting clothes ; then she turned and 
looked at them reprovingly, and they were silent beneath 
her gaze. 

“But after the wedding, when we were to go home, it 
proved that I had also forgotten to order a carriage, and 
Friederika refused to go away in one which, until this time, 
had belonged to her house, but now, with everything else, 
was her cousin’s property. ‘ Let us rather walk,’ said 
she harshly, her lips curling proudly. 1 1 have never 
begged.’ 

“ A painful quarter of an hour for me, especially as the 
two withered canonesses measured my young wife with 
scornful glances, each feature seeming to say : ‘ Oh, see, 
you proud, unyielding, defiant girl, what an awkward fool 
of a husband you have chosen, and you of noble birth ! 
Who will not hear, shall feel ; you go away with him like 
the wife of a day laborer ; did we not warn you to the 
best of our ability ? ’ 

“But Friederika stood in the porch ; she did not even 
glance at her father’s old sisters : she stared timidly at the 


A Fatal Misunderstanding. 


27 


house in which she was born and had lived until then, and 
waved her white hand as though in farewell. 

“ ‘ I am ready,’ said she then, the first word she had 
spoken to me this evening. But, when my horse was 
brought around, I asked : ‘ Would you dare ride him, 
Friederika? I will hold the bridle tightly ; no harm shall 
befall you.’ 

“ Without a word of reply she swung herself into the 



saddle. I laid my arm around her, and so I led my wife 
from her father’s house. 

“As we turned into the forest, the moon was already 
shining, and I led the horse out of the dark shadow of the 
trees into the white light that I might see her eyes. The 
August night was warm and sultry as though before a 
storm ; my head and heart burned, and my eyes ached, 
but she did not once turn her proud head to me. So we 
proceeded in silence, until the quiet house lay before us, 



28 


A Fatal Misunderstanding. 


bathed in silvery moonlight, but solitary, without greeting 
or decorations for its master’s young wife. Not even a 
wreath was fastened over the door ; 1 had forgotten every- 
thing except herself. 

“ I came to the horse’s side to lift her down, but she 
did not look at me, and turned the animal’s head toward 
the stone bench under the linden ; there she dismounted, 
and her voice rang in my ears strangely cold and distinct. 

“ ‘ One word before it is too late ! I do not wish com- 
passion, I would rather die ’ 

Friederika,’ I cried in terror, ‘ what are you saying ? ’ 
I thought that I had not understood her rightly. 

" 1 If merely compassion has brought me here — then — it 
is not yet too late. I have not yet crossed that threshold.’ 

“ My heart cried out wildly, while the blood rushed 
angrily to my head. 

“ ‘ The devil ! what strange questions you ask ! ’ I thun- 
dered at her, as a child screams loudest when he is fright- 
ened. ‘ Do you think I would throw away my liberty out 
of compassion ? ’ 

“ But scarcely had I said it when I lay at her feet, and 
weeping, buried my face in her gown. 

“ Then she bent over me and drew me to her breast, 
‘lama poor orphan, and you’ — she paused ; ‘ I will believe 
that you love me, Henry. It is so sweet to believe it,’ she 
whispered then in a low, trembling voice. 1 Forgive my 
foolish question ! See, if I could not have believed you 
I would have gone away this very night, and you would 
never have seen or found me again.’ 

“ ‘ But I would have found you, Friederika,’ I replied, 
and drew her roughly down upon the bench ; ‘ and had 
you flown up to yonder star I would have brought you 
back again.’ 

“She shook her head, and only then dropped the 


A Fatal Misunderstanding. 


29 



horse’s bridle, which 
she had been holding all 
this time. 

“ * No one returns 
from there, Henry,’ 
said she, and for the 
first time she threw her 
arms fairly passionately 
around my neck, and 
her head rested on my 
breast. 

“ Above us the night 
wind whispered in the 
branches of the linden, 
the moonlight shone 
palely on the pointed 
roof of the house, and 
occasionally there was 
a distant flash of light- 
ning. All around was 
silence — only the sleepy 
murmur of the spring 
near by, or the cry of 
a deer in the heart of 
the forest. 

“ Patience, John, 
the end comes — 
comes quicker than 
you suspect. 

“ She remained 
a grave and silent 
wife, as she had 
been a grave and 
silent girl ; there was nothing of the sweet fool shness 


30 


A Fatal Misunderstanding. 


of the honeymoon, and yet I was the happiest of men, 
John. I thought it was her grief for her brother and 
father that made her so grave and silent, and from day 
to day I hoped to see her lips smile — in vain. She treated 
me with a gentle mildness which fairly oppressed me, so 
that I would have fallen before her and kissed her hands, 
had it not seemed foolish and awkward to me. To this 
day I see her slight figure coming down the forest-path 
when, in the evening, she came to meet me as I returned 
from the forest. She seemed to float over the ground 
when she walked, so that I thought no blade of grass bent 
beneath her tread. She wore a black lace scarf loosely 
knotted over her blonde head, and usually held a bunch of 
wild-flowers in her hand, which she gathered as she walked, 
stooping here and there to pick them, Juno, my old spaniel, 
walking at her side. Later, she would sit beside me in our 
cosey room, patiently listening as I told her of the day’s 
experiences. 

“ Thus four weeks passed ; then one day I came home, 
as usual, with the setting sun, and looked along the path 
for her in vain. I had shot a heron, and thought she 
would be pleased with the gray and white feathers. But 
she did not come to meet me that day, although it was a 
lovely September evening, and in fear that something 
might have befallen her I walked more rapidly 

“ As I drew nearer the house, and was about to ascend 
the steps, I heard a sound which made me pause and listen. 
It came from the group of young firs behind which was 
the falconry. My heart beat more rapidly : it was a sweet 
and silvery woman’s laugh, and then lovely caressing words. 

“ I crossed the open place before the house, and turned 
around the group of firs ; there I saw my wife in the crim- 
son light of the setting sun. She held one hand raised 
and stretched out, and my noble white falcon stood on 


A Fatal Misunderstanding. 


3i 


it, while with the right hand she offered him food, 
and again her silvery laugh rang out. 

“ 1 Oh, you obstinate fel- 
low ! Take it, birdie, take 
it ! ’ 

“ I did not know what 
charming miracle had 
changed my grave, proud 
wife into a lovely, laughing 
child. Her beautiful face 
was rosy. Was it from the 
sunset glow ? But she was 
so strange and sweet that I 
paused to look at her, and 
fairly envied the defiant 
bird. Only as I passed 
close by him on my way to 
her, did I notice a man 
leaning against a peach-tree 
not far away. 

“ He was absorbed in the 
contemplation of the lovely woman, but now he turned 
his head, and in the next moment I held the friend of my 
youth in my arms, and a great happiness filled my heart. 

“ But he quickly freed himself from my arms, and point- 
ing to Friederika, asked : 

“ ‘ Harry, Harry, who is that ? ’ 

“ My eyes followed his, and I saw the slender, girlish 
figure slowly disappearing behind the firs. The bird sat 
solitary on his perch, his head resting on his breast. 

“ ‘ Who is that, Christel ? Why, my wife, my darling 
young wife.’ 

“ And I felt the blood rush to my face with proud joy. 

“ ‘ Harry my good Harry ! ’ cried Prince Christian, in 



A Fatal Misunderstanding . 


3 2 


his old hearty manner, ‘ it is thus that I meet you again ! 
You could not endure living alone in the old house, and 
so you captured the most beautiful elf that ever flitted 
through the woods in the moonlight ! Slyboots, how did 
you go about winning the proudest and most beautiful of 
girls, Friederika von Babenberg ? ’ 

“ ‘ How did I go about it, Christel ? ’ I replied, gazing at 
the spot where my wife had stood. ‘ How did I go about 
it ? ’ I repeated, and glanced at him proudly ; ‘ I did not 
go about it at all ; our hearts went out to' each other in 
love, and ’ 

“ ‘ And she was willing to come to this solitude ? ’ Prince 
Christian interrupted me, glancing at the gray walls of the 
house, whose windows shone like glowing eyes in the rays 
of the setting sun. 

“ * Yes, Christel, my wife loves me ! ’ 

“ ‘ H’m,’ said he, walking beside me to the house. ‘ So 
beautiful, so young, and so lovely, and do you believe that 
your falcon will long amuse her ? ’ 

“‘She is not like other women,’ I replied, roughly; 
‘her grave nature is well adapted to solitude.’ And so we 
walked silently to the house, and for a moment it seemed 
to me that the newly returned friend of my youth was less 
dear to me than formerly. 

“ But as we sat at supper, and looked into each other’s 
eyes as of old, I took my goblet and touched it to his : 
‘ Welcome home, Christian ! Avail yourself of the hospi- 
talities of the Red House the same as of old ! You will 
always find the same reception here ! ’ 

“ But my wife sat silently beside me ; her laugh had 
ceased. She looked more proud than ever, only a rosy 
flush had remained on her pale cheeks, and as our goblets 
touched, she raised her eyes and looked at me so that I 
forgot to drink ; I cannot tell you all that her eyes ex- 


A Fatal Misunderstanding. 


33 


pressed — alarm, reproach, and entreaty. But as I opened 
my mouth to question her, she gently laid her hand on my 
shoulder, rose, and took leave of the prince, since ‘ the 
gentlemen must have much to tell each other of all that 
had happened since their separation, and she had house- 
hold duties to attend to.’ 

“ ‘ Stay, Friederika,’ I pleaded ; ‘ it may interest you to 



hear of the doings in Paris, and what hats the court ladies 
wear.’ 

“ ‘ Permit me to take my leave,’ she said, almost un- 
pleasantly ; ‘ what do I care about Paris and the fashions 
there ? ’ And, with a deep bow to the prince, she left the 
rcom. 

“ But I glanced at him triumphantly, and repeated : 

“ ‘ She is not like others, Christel.’ 

“ I can see his face even to-day ; he stared at the door 
3 



34 


A Fatal Misunderstanding. 


behind which her slender figure had vanished, and his 
handsome face flushed crimson. I laughed loudly, and 
held out the goblet to him, and as he followed my example 
he turned as pale as the table-cloth. 

“ But then he began to tell of his travels, and praised 
Paris and its pretty women, and many a bold adventure 
was told to me. What morals, what looseness — I was 
sorry for the lips that told of this, but as I looked into his 
eyes I saw a good share of German honor, and thought, 
he may indeed have fallen in this rushing whirlpool, but 
he will never succumb ; and I thought of his mother, the 
very pattern of a noble woman and princess, and that 
her pure spirit would keep him from all unworthy ac- 
tions. 

“ When he wished to ride home, late into the night, he 
walked softly along the corridor, and in the vestibule, when 
I called loudly to the groom to bring lights, he restrained 
me violently : 

“ ‘ Do you not think that your wife is probably asleep ? ’ 

“ I started. For an instant it dawned upon me what an 
awkward lout I was, but then I laughed. 

“ ‘ One sees that you have even improved upon Parisian 
politeness.’ 

“ As he mounted his horse his eyes glanced up at the 
dark windows. 

“ ‘ May I come again, Harry ? ’ he now asked aloud. 

“ ‘ As often as you will, Christel ; it is an honor and a 
pleasure to me, and if I am not at home you will find 
Friederika ; only you must not talk to her of Paris,’ I 
added, laughingly, ‘for now you know what she thinks of 
it.’ 

“But I found Friederika in her room, still awake. She 
was reading a prayer book, and the lamplight formed a 
halo around her golden head. 


A Fatal Misunderstanding. 


35 



“ ‘ Friederika,’ I asked, ‘why did you leave us alone? 
Do you dislike Prince Christian ? ’ 

“ ‘ No,’ said she, shortly ; ‘ he is your friend ! ’ 

Will you not in future be more friendly to him ? ’ I 
asked, seating my- 
self beside her. She 
bowed her head, but 
remained silent, her 
eyelids lowered. 

“ ‘ Do you like 
the white falcon, 

Friederika?’ I be- 
gan. I wished to 
give her the bird 
which she liked ; I 
longed for a smile, 
since I knew that she 
could smile. 

“ She raised her 
eyes in surprise. ‘ I 
had one like it at 
home,’ said she softly. Then she quickly rose. ‘ It is 
past midnight, and you go into the forest early.’ 

4 ‘ My heart was on my tongue ; I would so gladly have 
seized her small hand and said to her : ‘ Why are you so 
cold, and why do your lips not once wear a smile when 
you are with me ? And yet I know how charmingly you 
can smile and how your eyes can sparkle, how rosily your 
cheeks can flush. Tell me what you wish : I will do 
everything, everything, only give me one kind glance.’ 
But I was silent ; I did not know how to speak. Oh, that 
I had not been silent ; perhaps all would yet have been 
well ! But her laugh followed me, waking or sleeping, 
and I fancied I heard the sweet words, the silvery tones 


3 <> 


A Fatal Misunder standing. 


of her voice: ‘Take it, birdie; take it, you obstinate 
fellow ! ’ 

“ From that day I could not bear the bird. 

“ John, my pen almost refuses to write what comes now. 

I will bring it quickly to an end. 

“ Prince Christian came daily to the Red House — are 
you surprised ? Not a day passed that we did not see 
each other. Sometimes I found them together coming to 
meet me in the sunset, or he sat in the house with her 
when it stormed, and watched her spin, but I never heard 
her laugh as she had on that evening. She was pale again, 
almost paler than before, and more silent, but a restless- 
ness had come over her, and a crimson spot appeared on 
her cheek sometimes for a few seconds. Once, when I 
returned home quite late, when a bright moonlight night 
had kept me late on guard, and as I stole softly into my 
room so as not to disturb her slumber, she came into the 
room more hastily than was her wont, and as I bade her 
good evening, I saw that she had been weeping, and also 
that she tried to conceal it. 

“Therefore I said nothing about it to her, and 
merely asked casually if Prince Christian had been 
here. 

“ Then her face changed, and flushed crimson. ‘ He 
has just ridden home,’ she answered. ‘ I am surprised that 
you did not meet him on the way.’ 

I came from the Neindorfer woods,’ said I. 

“ ‘ I think you make your friend often wait in vain for 
you,’ said she then, and her voice sounded wild, as though 
her heart beat violently. 

“ ‘ Oh, he finds my dearest wife at home, to fill my 
place,’ said I jokingly, and threw my arm around her ; 
‘ or do you not think, Friederika, that such a substitute is 
welcome to him ? ’ But her face remained pale ; she freed 


A Fatal Misunderstanding. 


37 


herself from my arm, and left the room, and I could not 
understand her mysterious behavior. 

“ Several times I found her shut up in her room, and 
when I wondered at this and teased her, telling her that I 
supposed she was afraid of robbers, and asked whether I 
should get her a good gun for protection, she laughed, 
and said, with peculiar emphasis : ‘ Of course, my fool- 
ish fear ! What is there here worth the trouble of steal- 
ing ? ’ 

“ I took this as a sign of a happy mood ; how could I 
suspect the meaning concealed in these words ? I, awk- 
ward fellow, who only understood plain language ! 

“And then — I can scarcely remember what happened 
that terrible day — I had to leave the house very early, for 
His Highness had invited some distinguished guests to a 
boar-hunt, and I must see that all preparations were made 
with double care to-day, since the noble ladies were to 
honor the hunt with their presence. During the hunt I 
did not miss Prince Christian, who formerly had never 
been absent, for I did everything mechanically, my 
thoughts with Friederika; for I had thought I heard her 
softly crying during the night, but was uncertain whether 
I had been awake or asleep. A wild boar was caught 
after he had killed several dogs, and was given to the for- 
eign prince, and the hunting party soon after rode to a 
hunt breakfast at Castle Elchsburg. 

“ But suddenly a terror had come upon me, so that I took 
a short cut through the woods to arrive home the sooner. 
The branches struck me in the face, but I did not notice 
it ; breathing quickly, at last I stood under the linden-tree, 
near the spring. A strange yellow light fell upon the old 
walls, and the trees in their autumnal garb, and as I saw 
the quiet, peaceful scene before me, peace, and almost a 
gay mood, came upon me. I crept softly through the gate, 


33 


A Fatal Misunderstanding. 


climbed the ivy growing around her window, and peeped 
in to see what she was doing in the solitude. 

“ At first I saw nothing, for my eyes could not accus- 
tom themselves to the 
twilight within, but then 
— John ! How I got 

down from the window 
and reached the stone 
bench where I found 
myself later, I do not 
know ! 

“ My wife — and my 
friend ! He was on his 
knees before her. She 
sat in a chair, her hands 
folded, her head bowed 
over them — not a breath, not 
sound disturbed them in the lonely 
house. He who had the right to do 
so, was far away in the forest. A 
gloomy, evil mood came upon me ; 

I tore the gun from its case on my 
shoulder, and laid it on the window 
ledge ; but then I threw it far from 
me, and buried my face in my 
hands as I passed the darkest hours of my life. 

“ It was late when I went to my room, and listened for 
her steps. What I would do to her was not yet clear to 
me. Anger and scorn filled my heart, so that I could have 
spurned her with my foot like a dog. And at last I heard 
her coming ; the door of the room slowly opened, and she 
stood on the threshold, so slender, so sweet ! Her face 
was pale and tear-stained as she came, and, pausing before 
me, sank to the floor. ‘ Henry ! Henry ! ’ rang in my ears, 



A Fatal Misunderstanding. 


39 


and she raised her clasped hands to me. What else she 
said I did not understand — the words died on her lips. 

“ I sprang up in wild rage, and tore her from the floor. 
I seized her hand firmly, and led her out of the room, 
through the hall, across the threshold of my house. She 



followed me unresistingly, only her eyes gave me one look 
like that of a mortally wounded dove. 

“ I said nothing, merely pointed down the road with 
one hand ; but she understood me. She drew herself up 
proudly, threw back her beautiful head, and thus she stood 


40 


A Fatal Misunderstanding. 


before me as though not she, but I, were guilty. Her lips 
moved as though she would speak, then she turned away 
with a fairly scornful gesture, and walked away in the twi- 
light — and as she disappeared from my sight, I threw my 
gun over my shoulder, and in wild grief spent the night 
roving through the forest. 

“ When I came home in the misty dawn, I had but one 



wish, that she might have returned, guilty or not ; I was 
too deeply in the power of the wretched woman. James 
told me in alarm that his mistress had not been home all 
night, so that I cried, with a bitter laugh : * She probably 


A Fatal M isunderstanding. 


4 


found shelter somewhere.’ But at that very moment a 
rider came galloping up, and by the black horse I recog- 
nized Prince Christian. I handed my gun to James, that 
no accident might happen, rested my hands at my sides, 
and gloomily watched him come on. 

“ He held out his hand to me, his hair hung in disorder 
over his brow, his clothes were unkempt, and he looked 
pale and worn as one who has passed the night in great 
suffering. 

“ ‘ I have something to say to you, Harry,’ said he dully, 
jumping from his horse. 

“ ‘ What is to be said between us can be spoken only by 
an iron mouth,’ I replied. He started, and gazed at me 
piercingly. 

“ ‘ I think you misunderstand me, Harry. I wish to 
speak for your wife ’ 

“ Then I laughed shrilly. ‘ My wife ! I did not know 
that I still had one, but I have not yet forgotten that I 
once had one.’ 

“ ‘ For God’s sake, Henry ! ’ he cried in horror, ‘ what 
does this mean ? How you look ! Where is Fried- 
erika ? ’ 

“ ‘ You probably know that better than I,’ I replied. 

“ But he had grown deathly pale. 

“ 1 She has gone — you have — ’ Then he broke off. 
‘ Harry, you are a rough, unfeeling mortal ! ’ he cried. 
‘ You are not worthy of one glance from her ! You never 
loved her ! ’ 

“ Then I laughed again. ‘ You may know better,’ I 
replied ; ‘ I am no courtier and no prince, and have never 
learned in Paris how to seduce the wife of a friend ! ’ 

“ But he scarcely noticed my bitter words, and behaved 
like a desperate man, and madly ordered grooms and for- 
esters to search for the woman, while James’s wife ran 


42 


A Fatal Misunderstanding. 


about repeating the same thing : the mistress had done 
herself harm, she had long been so strange and peculiar, 
and at times had screamed and cried so. 

“ ‘ Master,’ the woman cried, falling down on the front 
steps before me, where I still stood as though turned to 
stone, ‘ master, I will never survive this ; she has jumped 
into the lake — into the lake ! ’ 

“But the words which Friederika had spoken on her 
wedding night rang in my ears : 

“ ‘ Then I would have gone away, and you would never 
have found me again.’ 

“ Why did she wish to go away then ? Because she 
fancied that I did not love her, and yet this love was 
nothing to her. She had proved faithless at the first 
temptation she encountered. 

“ Suddenly a wild despair overpowered me. God, if it 
were true ! If she lay in the lake, pale and dead ! 

“I rushed down the steps ; I wished to look for her, but 
— what was she to me ? Another sought her, with all the 
terror of a lover. She herself had deprived me of the right 
to look for her. 

“ I went to my room and began to pace up and down ; 
occasionally my eyes fell upon the gun, and I debated 
whether it would not be better to make an end of my 
miserable life. ‘For the sake of a woman, a faithless 
woman ? ’ I asked myself then. ‘ Is not life worth more 
than such a price ? ’ 

“ I opened the door of her room ; everything was just as 
she had left it — on the table by the window were books 
which Prince Christian had brought her, a lace scarf 
which she so liked to wear over her hair, and in a crystal 
vase a bunch of red mountain-ash berries and gay-colored 
oak leaves. The little spinning wheel with the ivory 
ornamentation was pushed aside. I fancied I could see 


A Fatal Misunderstanding. 


43 


the white hand holding the fine thread, the small foot rest- 
ing on the treadle. 

“ ‘ Friederika, Friederika,’ I cried aloud, * it cannot be ; 
it is only a dream, a terrible dream ; you must come back 
again ; all must be as it was — no, better, far happier ; what 
have I done to you that you should make me so miser- 
able ? ’ 

“ But all was silence, a silence as of death, and I lay 
before her chair hour after hour, and held the scarf pressed 
against my burning cheeks until darkness fell ; only the 
tick of the clock warned me that time never stands still. 

“ Then a confusion of voices, cries of grief from James’s 
wife, and as I rushed out of the room I saw, in the flicker- 
ing light of a torch — my wife ! Prince Christian carried 
her in his arms, and just at that moment laid her on a settee ; 
and there she lay, strangely pale and rigid, and from the 
long blonde hair and her garments fell bright drops of 
water, and a long wet trail was visible down the hall. 

“ My heart stood still ; I had to lean against the wall, 
while the men who filled the hall had grown quiet. I was 
about to go to her, but Prince Christian barred my path, 
and raised his hand repellently. ‘ What more do you wish 
with her ? ’ 

“ Then I turned away, and went back to my room, John, 
and with the dawn I had become another man. They said 
I had a heart of stone ; they did not know how soft it had 
been. 

“ I did not ask where they would bury her — what did it 
concern me ? I was treated as though I were a stranger 
in this house ; the old aunts came from the cloister, but 
they did not ask for me ; I was a heartless man, more 
unfeeling than stone ; I had let her perish at my side — I 
had driven her to her death. 

“ The night before the burial, I crept into the room 


44 


A Fatal Misunderstanding . 


where they had laid her in her coffin. The moon shone 
brightly through the window, and showed me the face 
which I had loved better than my life and which was now 
rigid in the terrible, cold slumber of death. I longed to 
clasp the delicate white hands, which were folded over her 
quiet bosom, but an uncontrollable terror overcame me : 
those hands had been faithless, like the lovely woman her- 
self— her love a lie and deception, a lie and deception 
friendship, the whole world lies and deceit. 

“A half-suppressed curse passed my lips, and with 

death ; the hall door 
closed with a bang 
which echoed through 
the quiet house. Then 
I whistled to my dogs, 
threw the gun over 
my sh oulder, and 
wandered restlessly 
about in the night. 
How often since then 
have I wandered 
through the long night, 
in the sweet moon- 
light of summer, in 
the storms of autumn, 
always the pale wom- 
an’s face before my 
eyes. 

“But the morning 
they buried her was 
so stormy that the 
men who carried the 
coffin could scarcely stand, and the trees, almost stripped 
of their leaves, groaned and sighed in the wind. The first 



A Fatal Misunderstanding. 


45 


few flakes of snow of the approaching winter whirled in 
the air, and rested on the dark green of the fir-trees like 
the white flowers with which James’s wife had adorned 
the cofifin. I had pressed my forehead against the panes 
of the window, and gazed after the little procession as it 
proceeded in the storm, but my heart felt nothing, and 
could no longer cry out in pain ; it was dead, John, as cold 
and dead as the one in the coffin. The dog beside me 
whined ; the dumb animal realized what he had lost, and 
from the hall came the cries and moans of the women. 

“ Then I roused myself as the last man of the procession 
disappeared behind the trees, ordered my horse saddled 
and rode to the castle ; but when I demanded to speak 
with Prince Christian, I was told that he had left early that 
morning, no one knew for where ; a letter which His 
Highness had left for me had just been sent to me. Then 
I turned, and smiled mockingly : ‘ That is right,’ I said 
to myself ; ‘ faithless and cowardly, and of princely 
blood ! ’ 

“ But the people whom I met avoided me, and gazed at 
me in horror, while I heard a young girl say : 

“‘See what man’s fidelity amounts to. His wife has 
been buried perhaps fifteen minutes, and he rides along as 
though nothing had happened. Mother, I will never have 
a husband.’ 

“ ‘ God keep you from such a wretch ! ’ said the mother. 

“ But when I arrived at home I opened the letter. ‘ It 
is best that everything should for the present remain un- 
said between us,’ it ran. ‘ For you could not bear to hear 
the truth now. I go because I do not wish to fight with 
you. Even now, still your sincere friend, 

“ To believe that would have been more than could have 
been expected of me then. 

“Only after years did chance lead me to Friederika’s 


4 6 


A Fatal Misunderstanding. 


grave. It was on the anniversary of the day when first I 
had brought her home. I wandered about more desper- 
ate than ever. I was a desolate, gloomy man, whom his 
kind avoided. Malicious tongues had told who knows 
what tales of me, representing me as a monster, a brute. 
I had thrown myself under a primeval oak, the peaceful 
stillness and solitude of the woods was around me, only 
the leaves rustled softly above me, and the mound of stones 
was simple and unadorned. Opposite the grave a clearing 
had been made, and in the green frame of the branches 
could be seen in the distance the ducal castle, while the 
windows shone and sparkled as though greeting the soli- 
tary grave, as though they jealously watched over her 
peaceful slumber. 

“ ‘ Even in death ! ’ I murmured, and turned away with 
a bitter smile. 

“ Prince Christian returned home only after years, when 
I, though physically still young, was mentally an old man. 
Such a grief preys upon one, John ; it makes one old before 
his time. 

“ The prince tried to speak with me ; I repulsed him, or 
my heart, in its rage and grief, would have made me treat 
him with less respect than I owed the brother of my sov- 
ereign, the duke. He was nothing more to me. Yet he 
repeated his attempt, not once but a hundred times ; still I 
avoided him. 

“ And after years a violent fever attacked him, and when 
they told me he was dying and asked me to come, I went 
and stood beside his bed, not in love and forgiveness — no, 
as a judge. 

“ And then he told me that he had secretly loved her 
before I ever knew her, but that she had never known it ; 
then he saw her again as my wife, and discovered that she 
was not happy, and his passion increased so that he saw 


A Fatal Misunderstanding . 


47 


nothing but her and her sad face. And one day when he 
found her in tears, he had told her of his love, being no 
longer able to control himself. 

“‘You know, Henry, what day I mean,’ he added, and 
his colorless face grew even paler. ‘ But she repulsed me 
harshly ; she loved but one person, she said — you, Harry, 



you, Harry ! ’ He raised himself from his pillows, and 
grasped my hands. ‘ You alone, Harry ! ’ he repeated, 
gasping for breath; ‘her grief, her unhappiness was — she 
thought you did not love her. Poor Harry, you never 
understood each other — misunderstood ! That is hard ! ’ 
“ Then he sank back wearily among his pillows, and after 
a while he whispered again : 


48 


A Fatal Misunderstanding . 


“ ‘ Forgive me, Harry, for the sake of her memory. She 
loved you, and you alone ! ’ 

“ I sat by him. and held his cold hands, until his weary 
eyes closed in the last sleep. But from his death-bed I 
hurried to her grave — John, do you know what remorse is ? 
May God grant that you never have to know it ! 

“It is late, twilight is gathering, the song has long since 



ceased outside. The wind blows in cold through the open 
window, and I am old. 

“ Love, hate, and misery are one — one, John ! 

“ If you ever come to our mountains, do not come to 
see me ; if I am still alive, keep my youthful image in your 
memory. It is better so. But do not fail to see her grave ; 
you know, in the pine forest under the oak ! And when 
you read the words on the stone, think of her and of me, 
— of me, John, who never understood how to be happy ! 

“ Written in the Red House. 

“Your friend, 

“ Henry Mardefeld.” 



A Fatal Misunderstanding. 


49 


My voice died away, and the room was filled with the 
red light of the setting sun, still rosy, as it had been a 
long, long time ago, when the solitary, unhappy man wrote 
those lines. A golden light lay on the tops of the old lin- 
dens, and tinged rosily the bare walls of the little room, 
while it fell like a bright veil over the white girlish figure 
in my arms. 

“ Friederika,” I said softly, and kissed the wet eyes. 

Which of us took the first step ? I do not know. 

“ It was my fault,” said she at last, after a long silence. 
“ I was angry and defiant.” 

“ No, no — I. I should have spoken to you frankly,” I 
replied. 

<f Oh, I thought you no longer loved me, because you 
did not once write.” 

“ But I could not, darling. I had promised your 
father ” 

“ Oh, Ulrich, how unhappy I was ! ” 

“ And I too, Frida ! ” 

And as I now gazed into her tearful blue eyes, I read a 
sweet promise in them: “Never, never will I be proud to 
you again.” And in my heart I, too, made her a promise, 
and we have both kept it, this silent promise, up to this 
hour. And it was five years ago that the myrtle wreath 
rested upon my wife’s brow. 

On the way home we passed the solitary grave once 
more, and Frida laid a wreath of evergreen on the ivy- 
grown mound. Hand in hand we sat there on the little 
bench, and above us whispered and rustled the leaves in 
the evening breeze, and murmured strangely to our ears of 
joy and sorrow, now mourning, now repining : the breeze 
told us of those who slumbered here, and whose history it 
knew well — of the lovely, unhappy woman, of the honest 
man who loved her better than everything, of the wondrous 


5o 


A Fatal Misunderstanding . 


treasure of the sweetest happiness in life which lay buried 
beneath these stones, because neither of these two had 
known how to find it. 

Uncle met us at the gate ; the moon was rising over the 
mountains. 

“ Well,” he asked, “ did you read the history ? ” 



“ Yes, father,” said I. And he nodded, smiled genially, 
pressed our hands, and kissed his little daughter on the 
forehead. 

Now I knew why he had given me those papers — those 
yellowed old papers. 



II. 

UNITED IN DEATH. 


Yes, such an old book can tell tales. One can read 
destinies between its lines. I am very fond of it, and am 
proud that I received it as a souvenir, while a whole troop 
of grandchildren laid claim to it. 

It begins with a trembling old man’s handwriting. On 
the fourth of January, 1805, the withered right hand of an 
eighty-year-old man copied down the words of the well- 
known poem : 

“ Always be faithful and honest,” etc. 

for the young owner of the book, then leaving his father’s 
house to go out into the world and seek his fortune. 
Underneath is written : 

“ When you read these verses let your most earnest endeavor be to 
live up to them ; by this you will rejoice your father’s heart as he 
wishes. Christian Heinrich v. S.” 

The book closes on the last page with these lines, pos- 
sibly quite new at the time : 

“ Who is more fond of you than I 
Who sign myself 

Always your friend, 

Hermann Posseck?” 

And what can be read in the intervening pages, between 
these exaggerated assurances of friendship, these paternal 


52 


United in Death 


admonitions, these motherly, loving words, and fond wishes 
of aunts and uncles ? 

Women’s delicate hands have interwoven roses and vio- 
lets with their verses, and speak of parting and meeting. 

“ May roses bloom along the path of thy life, dear Stetten, 

But do not let their luxuriant beauty overshadow the forget-me-not. 

“Louise Meyer.” 

Louise Meyer ! How long the tears may have trembled 
on your lashes before they fell on the coarse paper where 
they made the spot still to be seen beside your name ! 

And how touching are these lines in another place : 

“ When thou art bound by magic bands, 

Then, ah, then think of Marie. 

When flowers are given by fairer hands, 

Think of one left to mourn thee.” 

Really, one would think that grandfather had been a 
true heart-breaker, did not one know how exaggerated 
were expressions in those days. 

Amidst all these effusions of love and friendship, one 
page, divided by a faint pencil stroke, seems strangely out 
of place. A man and a woman have both written upon it. 

He, as follows : 

“ May you, my dear young friend, always be as happy as he who 
writes these words now feels. Yours, 

“ Robert Osswald. 

“ The evening before his wedding, October 31, 1810.” 

On the other side of the page stands : 

“ The soul in our body is as if in a prison — it is a slave. It is a 
thought full of consolation that the prison walls will one day be bat- 
tered down, the chains of slavery be broken. How delightful this 
liberty will be— but when ? 

“ Remember your sincere friend, 


“ Minna Brinkmann.” 


United in Death. 


S 3 


But after the girl’s name grandfather’s hand had drawn 
across : “ + d. November i, 1810.” 

When I saw the page for the first time I asked with 
frightened look — at that time the owner of the book was 
still alive : 

“ Grandfather, is that possible ? Did this Minna Brink- 
mann write these lines so shortly before her death ?” 

The old man nodded. “ The first hour of her wedding- 
day was her death hour.” 

“ But that is terrible ! ” 

“Yes, that it was,” said grandfather, and his pleasant 
face suddenly grew grave. ’* And does it not seem as 
though she suspected her fate when one sees the words 
she wrote ? ” 

“Ah, grandfather, please tell me of it,” I pleaded. “ It 
is a strange sentence for a bride. There is such deep long- 
ing for death in those words, ‘ but when ? ’ And she wrote 
that shortly before her wedding. Was she not happy ? ” 

“ He is still alive, old Robert Osswald,” he replied 
evasively. 

“ Where, grandfather? ” 

“ On his estate. A strange fellow. He has never mar- 
ried.” 

“ Oh, grandfather, please tell me all about it.” 

“ Yes, child, willingly ; all that I know ; but it is not a 
cheerful story :” — 

I came to the Friedrichscastle forestry when a young 
forester. It was on an August evening, toward the end of 
the month, when I saw the gloomy nest for the first time. 
It lay there as if deserted behind the tall oaks, so solitary, 
surrounded by dense forests. It was a hunting-box of 
the Duke of B. The head forester lived on the ground 
floor. Upstairs were the ducal apartments and banquet 


54 


United in Death. 



hall. Broad stone steps led up to a massive door. Two 
statues of hunters blowing horns stood one on each side, 
and the lantern fastened over the door shed a faint light 
upon them, so that it seemed as though the fellows were 
alive, and as though the stag’s head with its sixteen antlers 
over the portal made all sorts of strange grimaces. 

I stood there watching the play of the light, when I 


heard light steps in the hall, and immediately after a 
white figure appeared on the threshold, and for the first 
time I saw Minna Brinkmann. 

She did not at once see me, for she gazed up at the 
sky, covered this evening with dark thunder clouds, and 
so, like a bold young forester, I could stare at her for some 
moments. 


United in Death. 


55 


I do not know whether she was really beautiful. She 
was not extremely young — I thought her perhaps twenty- 
eight — but this girl had a charm which it would be vain for 
me to attempt to describe, but which every one who came 
near her felt. 

She reminded me of those dainty, bright-eyed creatures 
hidden beneath the veil of an Oriental woman. At least 
I fancied that the Sultan’s favorite wife might look like 
this girl, and whenever I saw her I thought she should 
have wandered among palms, over gay-colored sands, in- 
stead of under the gnarled oaks of a German forest. She 
was graceful as a deer, and had a pair of eyes which I 
can tell you, girl, were enough to make a young man dizzy 
when she turned them upon him. However, she was not 
very lavish with her looks, and she carried her beautiful 
little head very haughtily. The neighbors called her the 
Princess. I did not know it at the time, but thought that 
no princess could look more fine and proud than she. 

When she perceived me she bowed slightly, and told 
me that her uncle and aunt expected me, and that my 
room was ready. She walked, or rather floated, down the 
hall to call a maid to show me the way, for I had expressed 
the wish first to go to my room to dress for my intro- 
duction to my new superior, as the long post journey in 
the glowing heat had not improved my looks. 

After this introduction had taken place, and I had talked 
for an hour with the pleasant head forester Brinkmann, and 
his kind but somewhat tiresome wife, I was dismissed, for 
the old man went to bed with the chickens ; but I slipped 
out of the door, and wandered up and down before the 
house in the gloomy, sultry night, my path lighted only by. 
the regular flashes of lightning of a distant thunder storm. 

The old couple had told me that they had a niece living 
in the house ; this niece I knew was out-doors, and it is 


5 6 


United in Death. 


very possible that she was the cause of my continued 
walking, for during the old people’s talk her bright face 
had not once left my thoughts. 

My wish to see something of her was really fulfilled. 
The house which I walked around lay in a clearing in 
the midst of the forest. At the back was a garden, where 
Mrs. Brinkmann, who, I had discovered, was a great lover 
of flowers, raised quantities of the most beautiful pinks and 
verbenas. The crowning glory of this little garden was an 
arbor of beeches, artfully bound together and kept care- 
fully trimmed. That evening I could, of course, dis- 
tinguish plainly neither flowers nor arbor. I inhaled the 
fragrance of the former ; it was fairly intoxicating — 
heliotrope, pinks, and mignonette. But by the flashes of 
lightning this arbor seemed a cave to me, and in this dark 
hiding-place gleamed the white gown of Minna Brink- 
mann. 

I placed myself in the shadow of the old oaks on the 
other side of the garden, and stared over at the arbor as 
anxiously as though I were on guard. The lightning did 
its duty : every few seconds I saw the white gown. The 
thick-walled stone castle lay dark and massive before me ; 
only two windows of the upper story were dimly lighted. 

Several times a shadow crossed the curtains ; then the 
light was extinguished, and now all seemed to sleep and 
rest. 

I did not stir ; the air, the stillness did me good, and I 
was curious to learn how long Miss Minna would dream 
there. I was only sorry that, since I was a complete 
stranger, I could not ask leave to sit opposite her in the 
arbor, and I pictured to myself that perhaps I might have 
this happiness some day, if I followed my mother’s direc- 
tions very delicately and carefully ; and that possibly the 
lovely girl would later permit me to bring my zither, which 


United in Death. 


57 


at that time I played with enthusiasm, and that probably 
it would not be as tiresome here as I had at first imagined. 

From these charming dreams of the future a quick, 
light, though strong tread aroused me. By the lightning 
I saw a man drawing near ; he passed close to me, and in 
the next moment I heard Minna’s voice : 

“ Your Highness ! — Max ! ” There was a strange charm 
in the girl’s voice ; it was somewhat veiled and soft and 
tender, but it was never so sweet and trembling as at this 
moment. 

For a while I stood as if rooted to the ground. High- 
ness? Max ? That could only be Prince Max — Prince 
Max, the second son of the ducal house, whom all the 
world considered eccentric, since he withdrew from court 
festivities and buried himself in the forest, more to live 
for his books than for the noble pursuit of hunting. And 
this Prince Max was here, and now, this sultry summer 
night, sat in the arbor with a beautiful girl, whom he even 
kissed — kissed — I heard it very plainly, and also a deep, 
vibrating voice saying : “ You are better than I ; you are 
stronger. I do not know, Minna, how I can bear it ” 

“ You will, Max ; you must,” she replied. 

And now the flashes of lightning showed me plainly the 
prince at the girl’s feet, his face buried despairingly in the 
folds of her gown. 

I turned to go ; my heart beat loudly, and I was touched. 
So this was the secret which made the prince, beloved 
by the whole land, so melancholy. 

Their voices rang after me. “ Do not weep — ah, pray, 
do not weep. I cannot see you shed tears; it is all in 
vain — ” said she ; and it sounded despairing and mournful 
as when one’s hopes are at an end. 

Softly I crept away in the dark shadow, and as softly 
entered the house and went to my little gable room. 


58 


United in Death. 


In the hall of the second story burned an old-fashioned 
hanging lamp, in the light of which I saw a servant in the 
dark green livery of the ducal house ; he had one arm round 
the neck of the pretty chambermaid, and I heard him say 
laughingly : “ Will you be true to me, Luischen ? ” 

And she replied : “ Thanks, no ; you will never come 
back again.” 

“ Who says so ? ” he asked. 

“ Miss Minna,” said she. “ I think your prince is to be 
married.” 

The good-looking fellow laughed. “ He, Luischen ? 
Do not let them make you believe that. They would all 
like to have him put his head through the yoke, because 
our crown prince is such a sickly, consumptive creature, 
who will hardly marry. Good gracious, he is on his last 
legs. But my prince does not think of it ; I should know 
of it, Luischen. We had not been in the capital three 
days ; we scarcely showed ourselves in the theatre once, or 
paid our respects to the lady mother, when we could bear 
the air there no longer, and came here.” 

In their joking the two did not see me cross the hall 
and begin to ascend the last flight of stairs. 

At that time I was still very young, and the whole 
charm of the summer night and the romantic scene out- 
doors filled my heart. I could not sleep, although I had 
an almost endless, wearisome post journey behind me. I 
thought continually of the prince, the beautiful girl, and 
those hopeless words, “ Do not weep ; it is all in vain ! ” 

The spell finally yielded to a very prosaic, sound, youth- 
ful slumber, and an extremely uninteresting awakening. 

It had rained during the night, and the head forester 
and I went in the gray August morning to the forest, be- 
cause on these windless, sultry days the deer come out in 
numbers. 


United in Death. 


59 


Unfortunately, as we left the house we met a very old, 
toothless woman with a basket on her back. At sight 
of her the forester’s face 
flushed with rage, and he 
greeted her with a “Go to 
the devil ! ” In fact, we 
had no luck. 

It began to rain again, 
and we came home drip- 
ping wet and without booty, 
the old man also grumbling 
angrily, for I had been so 
unfortunate as to spoil his 
chance of a shot at a deer. 

He said I had stared at the 
beautiful creature too much, 
fairly stood still to gaze at it 
scolding. 

The old house seemed to me by daylight uncannily 
gloomy. A question as to whether the upper rooms were 
occupied was answered by a short “ No ! ” I saw neither 
the mistress of the house nor her niece at the silent break- 
fast. The two ladies did not appear until dinner-time. 
Miss Minna was white as the tablecloth ; she displayed a 
calmness which I thought entirely forced. She scarcely 
ate, gave her uncle an occasional shy, questioning glance, 
and when he gazed at her vexedly she turned her head 
and gazed out of the window, against which the raindrops 
beat. Mrs. Brinkmann had been crying. 

When the soup was removed from the table, the old 
coachman came to the door and asked if there were any 
letters for him to take ; he was going to the town and would 
stop at the post-office. 

For a moment there was silence. Mrs. Brinkmann had 



; in short, I received a severe 


6o 


United in Death. 


even shaken her head in dismissal, when Minna stretched 
out her hand — she was now not only pale, her face was 
almost livid. She tried to speak, but with her left hand she 
clutched her throat ; then she fumbled in the folds of her 
gown and held out a letter in her trembling hand to the 
man. “To Mr. Osswald,” came brokenly from her 
lips. 

“ To Niebelintz ? ” asked the old man, scratching his 
ear. 

She nodded, her face rigid. 

“ It is out of my way,” grumbled the man. 

“ Confound you ! ” burst out Mr. Brinkmann. “ Get out 
of the house. You could have been half-way there by this 
time.” 

And then the old forester sprang up, threw his crumpled 
napkin on the table, and ran into the adjoining room, where 
I heard him coughing and blowing his nose, and when he 
came back again his eyes were filled with tears. He went 
behind the chair on which Minna sat with folded hands 
and wholly expressionless face, and suddenly he took her 
delicate head, adorned with a wealth of the most beautiful 
chestnut hair, between his two hands. “ Minna,” said he, 
hoarsely — “ Minna, you are — you are a splendid girl — you 
— God will bless you ! ” And then he coughed again and 
once more left the room. This time he stayed away, 
although his wife called : 

“ Pray, come, Brinkmann ; the roast mutton is better than 
it has been for a long time.” 

The old lady seemed cross. She gazed disappointedly at 
her pale niece. She had taken up her knife and fork and 
played with the beans on her plate, but she could not eat, 
courageously as she tried to control herself. I felt that I 
was not wanted here, ate as quickly as possible, and left the 
table. But as I went out of the door I heard the old lady 



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am 

































United in Death. 


6 3 


say reproachfully : “ But, Minna, so precipitately ; it might 
have all come right in the end.” 

“ Aunt,” replied the young girl, “ I must do it on his 
account.” 

Toward evening of this day I saw her ; she was walking 
around the house ; a brown dachshund was playing with 
her puppies. The droll little things tumbled over and bit at 
each other, while their dignified mother gave them little 
reproving bites — it was a charming sight. 

She paused under the tall trees on whose leaves the last 
raindrops still hung, and stood motionless as a statue, with 
her eyes staring from grief ; she seemed the living image of 
renunciation. Only her mouth, her little crimson mouth, 
was not suited to this ; or did I only fancy so because I 
knew how familiar it was with stolen kisses ? 

She had seen me coming, and spoke to me. She talked 
of the dogs, her great pets, and asked whether I liked it 
here. Her words sounded very gentle and kind. 

I answered only too gladly, and may have remained 
standing near her longer than she liked, for suddenly she 
nodded and walked toward the forest. She wore a dark 
blue gown and a little black apron, while a white shawl was 
thrown loosely over her beautiful shoulders and fastened 
with a little gold pin. I have never forgotten how she 
looked that day, for I really never saw her in any gown but 
this one during our brief acquaintance. 

With darkness life suddenly returned to our house. I 
heard the maids rushing busily about, and the mistress’s 
orders even in my room. 

The maid who had charge of my room came in with a 
flushed, laughing face, and as I gazed at her in surprise, she 
cried: “Our young lady is engaged, Mr. von Stetten ; 
I said so when there were three lights burning in her room 
on New Year’s eve.” 


6 4 


United in Death. 


“ Louise,” I asked her, as she started to hurry away; “ tell 
me, did I only dream it, or were some of the ducal family 
here day before yesterday ?” 

“ You did not dream it ; Prince Max was here.” 

“ Does he come often ? ” 

“ Every minute,” said she, with the customary exaggera- 
tion. 

“ And does he stay long ? ” 

“ No ; he seldom can stay long. Since he spent the whole 
autumn here two years ago he only comes for a day or two, 
but very often.” 

“Indeed. Thank you, Louise.” 

“ You are welcome ; ” and she was gone. 

At supper I saw the engaged couple. “ Mr. Robert 
Osswald, owner of the estate of Niebelintz, quite near by,” 
he was introduced to me as. He was a large, quiet man, 
with a very sympathetic face, which his full blond beard 
became excellently, and his eyes shone with a great, tender 
happiness. 

He held his pale fiancee's hand in his constantly, and 
she treated him as lovingly and gently as would a sister her 
beloved brother. 

The supper was quite a festival. The old gentleman 
had brought up a couple of dusty bottles of Rhine wine 
from the cellar, and during the meal there was much talk 
of the time when Minna had come a little orphan to the 
lonely house, and had grown to be the joy of all ; and Mrs. 
Brinkmann, who seemed more and more to forget her grief, 
made plans for delightful intercourse between Friedric.hs- 
castle and Niebelintz. Then conversation turned upon the 
wedding, and Mr. Osswald said that he had been forced to 
wait seven years for his bride. This had been a hard pro- 
bation ; and now, since she had said yes, he wanted the 
wedding to be in seven weeks, on the 31st of October, his 


United in Death. 


65 


birthday. “ Does that suit you, Minna ? ” he asked, 
gazing tenderly at her. 

She nodded. “Yes,” said she aloud, and again her eyes 
had a strange, staring 
look. 

And then toasts 
were drunk to the 
happy pair. I had to 
bring my zither and 
play all the old for- 
ester’s favorite songs. 

And Minna was urged 
to sing, but she said 
that she was not in 
voice. And the ser- 
vants came and drank 
the young couple’s 
health. I do not remember so distinctly about all this ; I 
only know that it all seemed unnatural and artificial to 
me — all this joy, the toasts to the betrothed pair, and 
the assurances of happiness. Only Mr. Osswald’s quiet 
joy seemed genuine to me. 

And now there is little to tell except the conclusion of 
this story, for during the engagement everything seemed 
as usual. Osswald rode to the castle many times a week ; 
she stood in the doorway, or went to meet him, as cus- 
tom demanded. Once we were all invited to dine at Nie- 
belintz, and after dinner Osswald took his fiancde all over 
the house, from garret to cellar, and Mrs. Brinkmann had 
nothing to do but thankfully to acknowledge how very 
fortunate the poor orphan was. The girl was noticeably 
changed — so pale and thin, but always pleasant and 
patient ; she seemed firmly resolved to be a good wife to 
this good man. 



66 


United in Death. 


She worked from morning to evening ; at times she 
could not keep her eyes open, so tired was she, and several 
times I saw her sleeping in broad daylight, her head leaned 
back against a cushioned chair, the linen upon which she 
was sewing for her wedding outfit in her hand. 

Then I looked at her, and wondered at the delicate lines 
drawn by grief from her beautifully chiselled nose to the 
corners of her mouth, but which were invisible when she 
was awake and exerting all her self-control. 

One evening toward the end of September I returned 
from a hunting expedition at Niebelintz. Besides a bunch 
of roses and autumn mignonette, I had a number of mes- 
sages for Miss Brinkmann. Her lover’s house was full of 
company, and he could not come himself. — Ah, this is not 
so easy to tell. 

It was about nine o’clock. The earth was bathed in a 
perfect flood of radiant moonlight. Even in the forest 
there was a dim twilight, and bluish-silver patches of light 
lay on the ground. We had drunk a good deal of cham- 
pagne at Osswald’s, and at first I thought that I was in- 
toxicated when I heard a man’s voice speaking passion- 
ately in the arbor. 

“Minna, Minna, we have borne superhuman trials; 
give the man back his freedom. I cannot, I will not lose 
you. I cannot live without you ! ” 

“ I dare not, oh, God, I dare not ! ” she answered 
tearfully. “ Your Highness, I implore you to give up 
thinking of me. It is a mistake on your part. In your 
high position you dare not — ” Then a soft, pleading cry: 
“ Max, ah, do not torment me ; do you not see how un- 
happy I am ? Why did you come ? It will be for the 
unhappiness of both of us. Do not come back. Please, 
please, do not come back.” 

I hurried away. I had suddenly become sober. 


United in Death . 


67 


Later, when she came from the garden, paler and 
larger-eyed than ever, and I met her in the hall, I grew 
crimson like a school-boy discovered in some mischief, and 
could scarcely give her the messages and hand her the 
bouquet. 

She looked at me quite uncomprehendingly, took the 



flowers mechanically, and tottered across the hall to her 
room. 

The next day Minna begged that her wedding might 
be very private, and take place in the forestry. They 
promised that it should be as she wished. For days now 
she did not leave the house. One evening she suddenly 
turned to me : “ Mr. von Stetten, will you accompany me 


68 


United in Death. 


on a short walk in the woods ? I have such a longing for 
fresh air, and only think, since — since I read recently that 
the old messenger woman in Brederode was attacked by 
tramps, I am afraid to go alone.” 

“ Oh, how you can lie ! ” I thought, while I bowed and 
expressed my readiness, and old Mr. Brinkmann cried 
with a loud laugh : “ Being engaged has made you affected, 
child. Formerly you were not afraid of death or the 
devil.” 

But I walked beside the beautiful girl in the dry, 
fragrant September evening, and had my own thoughts. 
We scarcely spoke. Several times when there was a rustle 
ip the thicket I saw her start. Then she would quicken 
her pace and say something to me in a loud voice, and to 
please her I answered her as loudly. 

So I often became her companion, and aside from her 
beauty I learned to admire her character. Never has a 
woman’s heart fought so bravely against an ardent passion 
as did this girl’s. 

She faded perceptibly. I do not know whether the 
others noticed that she was a different being, that she 
who had usually laughed at dreams and forebodings 
became actually superstitious ; but I noticed how she 
liked to turn the conversation to mystic subjects. Did 
I believe that the dead could ever draw near a beloved 
being in spirit, and become seen by him ? 

I laughed at her. When one is twenty years old, one 
does not believe in ghosts. 

But she declared that it was her longing wish to be able 
to return to this world often after her death, and she be- 
lieved that when some one left behind here yearned with 
all the fibres of his being for a dear departed, this desire 
would be powerful enough to bring the spirit to earth, and 
vice versa. 


United in Death. 


6 9 


Another time, as we passed a stone image of the Virgin, 
by the roadside, she said : “It is such a comfort to know 
that one is to leave the world while still young, for it 
must be fearful to grow old.” 

“ How do you know that you will die young ? ” I asked, 
with a smile. 

“I do not know,” she replied ; “but I am firmly con- 
vinced that I will do so. In everything that I do, I have 
the consoling thought that death is not far off.” 

“ Well, that must be calmly awaited,” said I. “We can 
do nothing to prevent it ; the strange messenger comes 
unannounced.” 

“ Certainly,” she assented ; “and it is a great sin to sum- 
mon him, a great sin ; otherwise — ” she broke off. “ Many 
also say it is cowardly,” she continued, “ but that is not 
true. There is an existence which demands more cour- 
age to continue living than death. Believe me, Mr. von 
Stetten.” 

October storms arrived, the leaves changed color and 
fell, and the hunting fever had so taken possession of me 
that I was almost lost for my philosophizing friend. Hunt- 
ing made me weary and unfit for knightly service. 

Besides, the preparations for the wedding made great 
demands upon the women’s time, and one sunny day the 
bridal linen fluttered from the lines, and a dressmaker 
fashioned rustling silk into a bridal dress for Minna, while 
she was entertained with chocolate and cakes ; and I 
thought to myself, in a year the girl will be a happy, con- 
tented wife, and will laugh heartily at her former romantic 
fancies. 

So the evening before the wedding-day arrived. 

According to the bride’s wish, the wedding was to be a 
very quiet one, but some festivities were not to be done 
away with. There must be a couple of bridesmaids ; the 


70 


United in Death. 



groom’s two pretty cousins arrived the day before, and 
their merry, silvery laughter rang out from the room op- 
posite mine. Minna’s only young friend, a pretty blond 
young wife with bright eyes and a complexion like apple- 
blossoms, had left husband and child to dress her Minna as 
a bride, and at her wish shared her room. The girl had 
persisted in this with unusual obstinacy when her aunt 
would not listen to it at first, but wished to give the guest 
a better room. Then the groom’s mother, a fresh matron, 
full of roguishness and kindness, came from Niebelintz. 
She loved to tell and listen to merry stories, and hated 
nothing more than drooping of heads, and tears ; beside 
these, a couple of Mr. Osswald’s friends came. 

These people were assembled about six o’clock in the 

evening in the Brink- 
manns’ warm, brightly 
lighted sitting-room. The 
whole house smelled of 
pine, of roast meats and 
cake. Everything was in 
confusion when the 
mother- in-law to be 
knocked at the bride’s 
door, and called to her 
that a gypsy girl was there 
and wanted to tell her for- 
tune, so to come down- 
stairs quickly. The black- 
eyed cousin had disguised 
herself most pictu- 
resquely as a gypsy, and 
when Minna appeared she grasped her hand, and pre- 
dicted wonders of future happiness; while the other 
blonde cousin, dressed as a Niebelintz peasant girl, un- 


United in Death. 




packed all sorts of useful housekeeping things, and recited 
most charmingly appropriate verses. 

They were all very happy, especially Minna’s mother-in- 
law, who had found her match in Mr. Brinkmann, and the 
two tried to outdo each other in telling the most remark- 
able stories. 

The young men paid attentions to the girls, and then 
Minna’s myrtle vine was pitilessly robbed of all its 
branches, and the gypsy wound the bridal wreath. 

But Minna behaved most strangely. It seemed scarcely 
possible for her to sit quietly in her wreathed chair. Sev- 
eral times she flushed crimson, glanced at the ceiling, half 
rose, seated herself again, then stared fixedly before her 
without hearing the anxious, tender words which Osswald 
murmured in her ear. 

After supper I saw her standing in a window recess. I 
had brought my album downstairs, and had asked the 
young girls to write in it, and they had willingly perpetu- 
ated their names on its pages. Now I went up to Miss 
Minna with the same request, which I based upon her 
speedy departure from the house. She turned her head, 
and her eyes shone from her pale face like those of a 
feverish person. 

“ Did you hear nothing, Mr. von Stetten ? ” she whis- 
pered. 

I placed my ear against the window crack and shook my 
head. 

“ You hear nothing ? Strange. It sounded to me as 
though some one were coming through the forest — he must 
be here now.” 

Her fianed came up, and Minna begged him to write in 
my album first. He divided the page, and wrote ; then she 
seated herself at the table, and her trembling hand guided 
the pen. I stood near and watched those trembling fingers. 


7 2 


United in Death. 


Then her aunt called me, confided the key of the wine- 
cellar to me, and asked me to bring up a few more bottles 
of Rhine wine, for the others were all empty. 

As I came up from the cellar — the stairs led down from 
the hall by a so-called trap-door — I saw, by the dim light 
of the old three-armed lamp, Minna, in her pale blue silk 
gown, coming out of the sitting-room. She was evidently 
on her way to her own room. Suddenly she paused, gazed 



at the broad staircase, lying almost wholly in shadow, tot- 
tered, pressed her hand to her heart, and would have fallen 
to the floor had I not sprung to her side and caught 
her. 

“ Miss Minna, for God’s sake ! ” I cried. 

“Did you not see him?” she asked, shaking with ter- 
ror. “ My God — there — there he still stands ! ” 

I had seen nothing. 





v'r.i i 


w liny 

MM 










United in Death. 


75 


“ It was your shadow or mine, Miss Minna,” I said 
loudly. She drew herself up, and without saying a word 
she went back to the guests. 

What had she seen ? 

And suddenly, like lightning, the thought flashed to 
my mind — the prince ! 

None of the guests had left the room. I looked in ; no 
one was missing. Perhaps some one had crept in ; but 
that was impossible, for as I turned the knob of the out- 
side door I found that the door was locked. The rear 
entrance opened into the kitchen, and no one could have 
come in by that unnoticed this evening, for the servants 
were celebrating there, and dancing to the notes of a har- 
monium, so that the sand on the floor crunched under 
their feet. 

I went up to the room usually occupied by the prince, 
and listened, but there was no sound. I ventured to turn 
the door-knob softly ; the key was turned in the lock. Of 
course she had been mistaken. 

My mind at ease, I returned to the sitting-room, and 
went up to Miss Minna to thank her for writing in the 
album, and I now read what she had written. 

“ It is so sad,” I remarked to her ; but she did not 
answer. “ Listen — some one is walking around upstairs,” 
she whispered to me. She looked wretchedly. 

The carriage which was to take the groom, his mother, 
and his guests to Niebelintz now drew up. Loud, happy 
leave-takings followed. 

The betrothed pair remained behind for a moment in 
the deserted room. I looked through the open door and saw 
Osswald try to draw the girl to him, and how she pushed 
him away with both hands, then seized the frightened man 
by the arm to beg his forgiveness ; and thus they, too, 
came out into the hall. 


7 6 


United in Death. 


“ Forgive me, Robert, please forgive me,” I heard her 
say. 

And with tender pity he took the beautiful face be- 
tween his two large hands, and kissed her on the fore- 
head. 

“ For the last time, farewell, Minna.” 

“For the last time,” repeated she, mechanically. 

She followed him out into the stormy night, and stood 
on the steps. Her aunt brought her back, scolding her 
good-naturedly, and told her to go to her room. Laugh- 
ingly the young wife sprang after her, and soon the door 
closed behind the two. 

The rest of us sought our beds, for it was almost mid- 
night. 

I tossed on my bed sleeplessly. It was a strange night ; 
as though a thousand invisible spirits pervaded the old 
house. There was a rustling, creaking, and groaning be- 
hind the tapestries, in the beams and old furniture. Mean- 
while I saw constantly before me the bride’s pale face, and 
her eyes telling of an unnamable horror. The shadow 
that she had seen on the stairs would not leave my 
thoughts. The storm howled in the bare branches of 
the trees, and turned the weather vane on the gable, 
while Minna’s strange question, and her writing in the 
album, which seemed so desirous of death, rang in my 
ears. 

She has arrived at that point where intelligence ceases 
and madness begins, I told myself, and was frightened at 
my own thoughts. 

At length I fell asleep. 

Suddenly I was awakened by a woman’s scream outside 
in the hall, and there was something in this scream which 
hurried me from my bed, and made me rush downstairs as 
soon as I could throw on some clothes. 


United in Death. 


77 


Mrs. Brinkmann came from her bedroom with horrified 
face, and disappeared into Minna’s room as noiselessly as 
a ghost ; a few minutes later the old man hurried quickly 
and noiselessly past me. The maid came down the stairs 
and paused beside me, her teeth chattering. 

“For heaven’s sake, sir, what — what — has happened ?” 
she stammered. 

I knew nothing. I only knew that something terrible 
had happened. 

Then old Mr. Brinkmann came out again, and walked 
to the sitting-room as though completely crushed. I fol- 
lowed him, and he sank into the old leather arm-chair 
beside the cold stove, and did not move. 

“Mr. Brinkmann,” I said at length, “please tell 
me ” 

He groaned, and raised his head. In the cold, gray 
dawn of the winter morning his face was like that of a 
dead man. 

“ Dead — the child is dead.” The last words he almost 
screamed, and then he buried his face in his hands, and 
his huge form shook. It was as though the storm had 
struck an old weather-beaten oak. 

She had been his darling, his sunshine, his fawn. I can- 
not remember the thousand pet names which he used to 
give her. 

The old gig drove up before the house ; it was to be sent 
after a physician, and to notify the groom. The question 
arose : “ Who will tell him ? ” 'The old man was as if 
paralyzed, the coachman not a suitable messenger ; then it 
was decided that Minna’s friend should bear the sad news, 
and I accompanied her. 

I hurried to dress myself for the sad drive. When I 
went to the carriage the young lady already sat in it. In 
accordance with her warm-hearted, excitable nature she 


7 » 


United in Death. 


wept violently and incessantly. I sat silently beside her, 
for she had answered my questions as to how and when 
the girl’s death had occurred, only with violent weeping 
and a silent shake of the head. 

But finally, when the gables of Niebelintz showed above 
the tree-tops, she said : “ Oh, dear God, if he asks me how 
she died ! ” 

“ How did she die, madam ? How can one die so 
quickly ? ” I asked. 

She turned her tear-stained face toward me : “Yes, if 
I only knew ! She was so excited yesterday evening, and 
did not want to go to bed. She ran about the room, wring- 
ing her hands. ‘Anna, it is too hard.’ I did not know 
what she meant, laughed at her, and told her of my 
happiness, of my wedding, and talked of all sorts of 
things, until finally I succeeded in persuading her to get 
into bed. I did the same, and, as I was very tired, fell 
asleep. 

“ Suddenly I awoke. It was just one o’clock. I was 
wakened by a scream. ‘ Max — for God’s sake ! ’ she 
cried. I thought she was dreaming, and called to her to 
waken her. But as there was no sound I struck a light, 
and then — one sob, a smile, and the face over which I bent 
became strangely rigid, the hand I clasped so heavy. Oh, 
this unfortunate acquaintanceship with the prince ! ” And 
she began crying again. 

Behind us now rang out the sound of horses’ hoofs, the 
foiling of a coach, and the post for Friedrichsberg, which 
left the little capital at half-past three o’clock in the morn- 
ing, overtook us. The driver greeted our old coachman 
and called something to him. “ What do you say ? ” I 
cried, sitting up in the carriage ; and turning round, and 
placing his hand to his mouth, the man called back : “ Our 
Prince Max shot himself last night.” 


United in Death. 


79 


My neighbor and I stared at each other’s pale 
faces. 

“ It is a coincidence— a fearful — ” I stammered. 

She shivered slightly. 

“ Coincidence ?” said she hoarsely; “ that a coincidence ? 
No ; if you say that, you do not know the story of Minna’s 
life. A coincidence — oh, no ! ” 

I gazed silently at Niebelintz ; the first rosy light of the 
sun fell upon its walls, and at this moment the flag was 
hoisted on the tower, that it might flutter merrily on this 
day of joy for its owner. But he himself — the groom — 
stood at an open window and gazed out into the distance 
with a grave smile, over where behind the beech forests he 
knew his bride was. He did not hear the rolling of wheels, 
he did not see us, he had no suspicion of what had befallen 
him. I said to my companion : “ But they did not love 
each other.” She replied : “ The union of spirit, the 
communion of the soul was lacking in them. How can he 
suspect anything ? ” 

No, he had suspected nothing ; he was such a plain, 
honest, every-day man. 

He stood before the dead with pale face, and wiped the 
tears quietly from his eyes. He bore his grief in silence, 
but he never forgot the bride who died of heart disease in 
the first hour of her wedding-day. He never married, and 
even to-day tends her grave with touching care. “ We 
win only to lose. Everything blooms but to wither and 
die,” stands on her tombstone. 

“ Grandfather,” asked I, as he was silent, “ do you 
believe in this coincidence ? ” 

“ No,” answered the old man, and his blue eyes flashed 
at me from beneath their white brows. “ I believe only in 
God’s wise guidance.” 


8o 


United in Death. 


This was something different, but I saw that he did not 
wish to talk with me upon this subject any longer. He 
took the album, put it back in his desk, and said : “You 
shall have it, child, when I am dead, but you must keep it 
carefully.” I do so, and never do I take the shabby little 
book in my hand without thinking of the beautiful Minna 
Brinkmann. 





III. 

AN OLD PICTURE. 


It is a Sunday afternoon in March. It is snowing ; the 
wind blows the flakes before it, little sharp flakes which 
sparkle like diamonds in the solitary sunbeam which peeps 
out from the dark clouds as though in astonishment at 
such weather, which by right belongs to January but not 
to March. The hyacinths and crocuses gaze out cheer- 
fully at the snow-storm from behind the double windows. 
They know that they will not be harmed. They sit be- 
hind the large, transparent panes of glass like distinguished 
ladies. 

It is fearfully lonesome ; I know that no visitors will 
come. It is a storm which deprives one of all desire to 
go out, and every one has something on hand for Sundays, 
some relatives to visit, but those who have no family nor 
relatives must be alone. What shall I do ? Oh, let us 
revel in old recollections. 

I take a key and am about to unlock a drawer in my 
writing-desk containing letters from long-forgotten times : 
my eyes chance to fall upon a photograph on the wall, an 
insignificant picture in a black frame, greatly faded, for it 
is twenty-three years old, and a faded pink ribbon fastens 
it to the nail. 


82 


An Old Picture. 


Strange! The picture hangs there year in and year 
out ; I see it every day, and look at it so seldom. Now 
I take it down, and as I gaze at it tears suddenly fill my 
eyes. Ah, the beautiful golden days to which it owes its 
origin ! those days when the faded ribbon was bright pink, 
and fluttered from the shoulder of my first ball gown — 
golden days, whither have you fled ? 

Seven young girlish heads rise in front of the folds of a 
studio portiere before which we were grouped pictu- 
resquely by the photographer Hans Eyler in the good old 

city of R , where I passed my early youth. And we 

seven formed “the wreath.” We were an innocent girlish 
band, happy as little fish in the cool rapid mountain stream 
which rushed past our little city. 

All these faces wear a radiant expression, and the eyes 
seem dreaming of future blissful days ; each mouth wears 
the bright smile of youth. The pale little girl is Julie, the 
brunette Doris ; that roguish little nez retrousse belongs to 
Selma, and that beautiful, slender creature is Franziska ; 
there is Rose, there Minna, and here am I. 

What has life brought us ? Ah, we have all been quite 
roughly treated ; each has her load to bear. Most of us 
are married and now have children nearly grown, and 
think of future sons-in-law. Each year we remember our 
wreath sisters at birthdays, and write in a letter of con- 
gratulation that we are about as usual, that the children 
have been sick again, that we are gradually growing gray- 
haired, but, thank God, have nothing to complain of. 

Yes, we know about each other, except of one of whom 
we have heard nothing for years. She was different from 
the rest of us, and decidedly the bright particular star of 
our little circle, the “ beautiful Franzi ” with the wonder- 
ful chestnut hair, and her clear, enthusiastic blue eyes. 

She was the gayest of us all, full of moods and caprices. 


An Old Picture. 


83 


Franziska von Schlehen was her name. Her father had 
had a large estate, and after surrendering this to his 
son, had come to the city with his wife and daughter and 
had there bought a pretty, old-fashioned house. Behind 
this house lay a beautiful garden, extending to the little 
river, on the other side of which was the shooting place 
which, every year, for two weeks was changed into a gay 
camping ground at the time of bird-shooting. 

The eldest sister was already married. Franzi, at her 
mother’s wish, was one day solemnly received into our 
circle. But the mother died after Franzi had been with us 
but a few days, and her death and burial excited much 
gossip in the city. Mr. von Schlehen had married her 
against the wishes of his family. She had been somewhat 
“strange” before this. After his marriage Mr. von 
Schlehen had separated himself wholly from his old friends, 
and even from his own family, and had lived on his solitary 
estate with his young wife ; some people even said that 
Baroness von Schlehen had been deeply melancholy, and 
had had but occasional cheerful moments, and that she 
had suffered terribly from her husband’s pride. But no 
one knew anything definite. 

For four weeks after her mother’s death we saw nothing 
of Franzi ; then she came to see us again, dressed in deep 
mourning, and the beautiful, mournful girl was now made 
much of by us. We were all in our eighteenth year, ex- 
cept Franzi ; she was the only one who had already cel- 
ebrated her eighteenth birthday. At that time we knew her 
but slightly, yet she was very interesting to us. 

Gradually she thawed in her manner, and three months 
later the old coachman of the Schlehens came to bring to 
“ the wreath ” a formal invitation from Franzi to the 
house. 

We were, of course, eager to make the acquaintance of 


8 4 


An Old Picture. 


the baronial household, and admired everything : the hand- 
some furniture, carved and adorned with the family coat 
of arms, the family portraits, the silver, hangings, even the 
noiseless movements of the servants. The magnificent 
garden, in which the grapes were just ripe, excited our 
greatest admiration. We thought the summer-house, with 
its walls, upon which were painted scenes from the story of 



Paul and Virginia, magnificent. But what pleased me most 
of all was the view from the lawn, under the linden-trees, 
across the river to the shooting grounds. 

“Listen, Franzi. Next year, at the grand shooting 
match, you must ask ‘the wreath ’ here,” proposed Doris ; 
“then we can all watch it from here.” 

Franzi laughed. “ If papa will permit me ! He is so 
vexed about the whole match, for last year several men — 


An Old Picture. 


85 


regular tramps, you know — crossed the river to steal our 
vegetables for their dinner.” 

“ How did they do it ? ” asked Selma. 

That is no great feat,” said Franzi. “ The stream is 
not two feet deep at this spot.” 

“ That is alarming,” said I. 

“ This year papa will have the garden watched.” 

“ I am afraid of this class of men,” remarked Doris, who 
had a very anxious mother. 

“ I a m not at all,” declared Franzi. “ I was even once 
on the point of falling in love with a circus rider.” 

We all laughed. 

‘‘It is really true,” she asserted, without smiling. 

“ But when ? You have always been in the country,” I 
said. 

“ Not always,” said she softly, and her pale face flushed 
delicately. “ I was with my aunt in Brunswick for a long 
time.” 

“ Aha ! And that was why you were sent home on such 
short notice ? ” said Minna teasingly. 

“ No, indeed ! ” cried she violently. “ I came because 
mamma longed for me.” And now she was very pale. 

“ Good gracious, you told us yourself, only a little while 
ago, that you travelled at a moment’s notice,” said the little 
blonde apologetically. 

“ Do you know,” the sensible Doris interrupted, “ one of 
the laws of our circle is that we must have no secrets from 
each other ? Come into the house, and Franzi will tell us 
the story.” 

“ I have nothing to tell,” said she roughly; “but you are 
right, our cream is waiting for us, and as it is so cool, papa 
has given me a bottle of sweet Hungarian wine — there will 
be a thimbleful for each of us. So come.” 

When we had eaten the cream in the brightly lighted 


86 


An Old Picture. 


room, and drunk the wine — there was just enough to make 
us all a trifle excited — Doris suddenly said to our charm- 
ing hostess : “ Do you know, Franzi, the circus-rider idea 
is too stupid ; if you are fond of horses, and wish to marry 
some one who is interested in them, pray fall in love with 
a hussar officer.” 

Franzi threw back her head. “There is no hussar 
officer as charming as he ! ” she cried quickly, but then 
paused abruptly, for the old Baron von Schlehen, and his 



sister, who had kept house for him even before the death 
of his invalid wife, entered the room to greet us. 

I have never seen such a handsome old brother and 
sister. He, still a stately man, although past seventy, was 
a true cavalier : somewhat silent and unapproachable, very 
polite, and also very proud. Every one knew that it was 
not until after years of opposition, and only when his eld- 
est daughter became very ill, that he gave his consent to 
her marriage to a landed proprietor of the neighborhood 


An Old Picture. 


87 


who was not a nobleman, and even now he spoke of this 
marriage with striking coldness. 

The sister, his very image, was even more proud and 
aristocratic, although she welcomed Franzi’s friends with 
winning words. 

We were silent and shy as long as the two remained, 
and answered the questions put to us in low tones. We 
were descendants of plain burgher families and were abashed 
by so much pride and distinction. The only one who broke 
the stillness was I, for I broke into a short, nervous laugh 
at thought of Franzi’s circus-rider love-affair ; as the old 
gentleman gazed at me in surprise, I paused, flushing crim- 
son, and bent over my fancy work again. 

We were relieved of their presence in a quarter of an 
hour. We made our courtesies to them both, then the old 
gentleman chivalrously offered his arm to his sister, and left 
the room. We drew long breaths of relief — Franzi, espe- 
cially. She leaned back in her chair and fanned herself 
with her pocket handkerchief. 

“ Are you so warm ? ” asked one of us. 

“ I am always warm in my aunt’s presence. Really, I 
should be cold, but I always have to use every effort to 
keep from stamping my foot and screaming, when she sits 
near me. My very finger-tips tingle ; I should like to do 
something to rob her of her composure — this magnificent, 
stiff, horrible composure which she designates ‘good man- 
ners.’ ” 

The beautiful face looked seriously angry. 

“ I only wish each one of you had to live here for twen- 
ty-four hours with this so-called ‘ etiquette ’ ; but you would 
not bear it for twenty-four hours. Oh, and I, who in my 
childhood made friends on the sly with the daughters of 
papa’s shepherd, and knew no greater pleasure than to run 
into the thickest depths of the forest, away from my 


88 


An Old Picture. 


governess, where the old woodman, Gottlieb, shared with 
me his potatoes roasted in the ashes — I now sit here in 
this old house, under the eyes of my aunt ; and this house 
is in the worst corner in the world, and I have nothing, 
nothing but the tiresome garden, and ” 

“ But you have us,” said I reproachfully. 

a But after what struggles ! Had not my darling sick 
mother said : ‘ Egon, she must have young friends, pray 
let her — ’ I never could have associated with you.” 

We were silent, more or less offended. 

“ Do you know,” she continued, “ you must not be vexed 
with me for that. Papa, as well as aunt, knows very well 
that I would rather kill myself than give up my ‘ wreath 
sisters.’ ” And she held out her hand to the girl sitting 
nearest her, and looked at the others with tears in her eyes. 

“ It was foolish for me to tell you, but I had another 
quarrel with aunt to-day. She thought it necessary to 
stay with us all the time you were here, and then — then I 
was so violent.” 

“ But why should she ? Do we need to be watched ? 
We want to be alone together,” asked Doris. 

“Well, you see,” said Franzi, “I was so angry, so 
angry : I declared that I would rather give up having 
the wreath meet at our house, and then she finally stayed 
away.” 

Our delight in the baronial mansion was somewhat 
dampened, and on the way home we confessed to each 
other that we “did not come from the streets,” and that our 
fathers were men of high rank in the city, and that they 
were fully as important personages as was Baron von 
Schlehen. Of course, Franzi, poor thing, should not suffer 
from our vexation. 

We made all the more of her from that hour ; and as she 
could not share our pleasures, our charming expeditions in 


An Old Picture. 


89 


the forest, our moonlight picnics, where we danced with 
our brothers, the young merchants and lawyers of the 
city, as well as our balls and entertainments, we had 
promised ourselves that we would not sadden her with 
descriptions of all these delights. The baron did not 
move in our so-called first circles of society. He and his 
sister associated only with the three noble families residing 
in our little city. One of these consisted of a middle-aged 
married couple — he, a pensioned officer, who had come 
here for the sake of economy, with a troop of children, 
five boys and four girls, the eldest of them being but 
fourteen. The whole city knew that they were poor, and 
did not believe the captain’s wife when she declared that 
she thought barley soup healthier than meat. 

The head of the second family was a Russian nobleman, 
who had remained here because his wife had died and been 
buried in our little city, while on a tour. He had a very 
humpbacked son, who went to school, and he associated 
with no one but the Schlehens. 

Then there was the old Freifrau von Berlewitz, a 
splendid woman, who willingly came to our houses, to- 
gether with her seven rather old baroness daughters, who 
made no secret of the fact that they earned their pocket 
money by their handiwork. But as the youngest of these 
was thirty-eight, Franzi could not enjoy her society, and 
so preferred to languish alone. 

Besides these three families, Baron von Schlehen had 
called upon the judge, and as this judge was my uncle, I 
enjoyed the especial privilege of seeing Franzi, aside from 
the meetings of our little club, and occasionally receiving a 
note by Peter : “ Come, I implore- you ; I am dying with 
loneliness.” But still we never became true friends. 
There was something about Franzi which at the same time 
attracted and repulsed me. 


90 


An Old Picture. 


A fearfully passionate nature was concealed in this girl. 
Sometimes I thought its flames would consume her delicate 
frame ; and then there was something so strange about her, 
something I could not understand, and which made me 
blush, nevertheless. 

Our lives were so simple. First school, then house- 
keeping, then the suitor with sufficient means to support 
a wife, then the marriage altar, etc. We never thought 
that there could be different lives. Franzi thought such 
commonplace. She wished a great love-affair ; she had 
read “ Werther,” and recited bits from it to me, and then 
she had another book. Heaven knows where she had 
gotten it — the craziest thing that I ever read. I have for- 
gotten both title and author, but the story was of the 
daughter of a count who fell in love with a handsome 
robber chief, and for his sake left her father’s castle and 
all the splendor of her high rank to live in the forest with 
him. 

“ Do not be absurd,” said I ; “ there is nothing of the 
kind now. That is a book for old crazy people ” 

“There is not? Certainly not for you, but I am no 
every-day being. Of course, it is a little too much to run 
away with a robber chief, but ” 

“ So you think nothing of the running away itself ? ” 
asked I. 

“ No,” said she shortly. “ If one loves some one very 
dearly — then ” 

“ Oh, Franzi, Franzi ! ” 

She made no answer. After a while she began to speak 
of other things. 

Gradually, as I saw more of her, I formed an idea of her 
youth in the old castle in the Harz Mountains far from all 
intercourse, in rigid, aristocratic seclusion. I saw the child 
sitting for hours at a window, staring out into the dis~ 


An Old Picture . 


9i 


tance with questioning, longing eyes. I saw her in the 
forest left to herself for hours, dreaming under the trees ; 
and I saw her in the twilight of a winter day, creeping 
softly into the library to take a book away with her to her 
bedroom — one of those deluding, wicked books which had 
turned her beautiful little head. Her mother was ill, her 
father saw her only at meals, and her nurse had a sweet- 
heart. Franzi, even as a child, had seen them kiss each 
other, when she was told to pick flowers. And her gov- 
erness ! “ You think, Marie, that I did not know that she 

had a rendezvous, when she put on her long dark water- 
proof in the evening, and said to me, ‘Go to sleep, made- 
moiselle ; I will be back in three minutes. You must be 
asleep when I come back.’ Oh, you may believe that she 
was not back at twelve o’clock. I know, too, who — but 
papa turned her out of the house, he would have no gov- 
erness for daughter-in-law.” 

“Oh, I do not want to know anything more about it,” 
said I, painfully affected by what I had heard. 

“ And my poor sister ! She was so foolish ! I would 
have managed quite differently. I would have been mar- 
ried secretly to Rudolf ; one fine day I would have left 
the castle. She was angry with me when I advised her 
to do so, and preferred to torment herself for two years; 
and not until she became very ill would papa say yes. 
And papa ” 

“Please show me your mother’s picture,” I pleaded. 
And we crept into the house on tiptoe — her father and 
aunt were in the garden — and went up-stairs to the baron’s 
room. It was a large apartment ; some of the furniture, 
the chandelier, even the picture frames, were made of 
antlers. On the writing-desk hung the large oil painting. 

“ How very beautiful ! ” I whispered, gazing at the life- 
size figure of the slender woman in tight-fitting riding 


92 


An Old Picture . 


habit, a large mastiff at her side. From beneath the 
broad-brimmed, feather-trimmed hat Franzi’s sweet face 
looked out, so similar that it might have been painted for 
her, feature for feature — the same nose, the full, rosy lips, 
the dimple in the chin, the blue eyes. 

“ My darling mother,” sighed the girl. “ She was 
always ill. She never received visitors. I never think of 
her except on a lounge. We loved each other so dearly ; 
but aunt hated my mother.” The girl’s hands clinched. 
“ Believe me, had it not been for aunt, papa would have 
treated mamma and us quite differently.” 

Softly we crept down-stairs again. 

“ Give me your hand,” she asked another time, as she 
visited me with tear-stained eyes, in the twilight one fine 
evening. 

I gave her my hand. 

“ So ! I thank you. You must betray to no one what 
I am now going to confide to you. Do you know, I can 
no longer bear life at home. I am going away.” 

“ For heaven’s sake, where ? ” 

“ That I do not yet know.” 

I begged and implored her to give up this idea. And 
whether my terror touched her, or I found the right words 
to move her heart, she fell on my neck with tears, and 
promised to give up such thoughts ; but I must promise 
to come to see her oftener, to be a faithful, silent friend. 
At eighteen years one is willing and ready to make 
sacrifices ; one still believes in wonders which she can 
accomplish. I resolved to rescue my friend. 

“ Franzi, ’ I began, “ you must be sensible. You must 
not read so much ; do something about the house.” 

She laughed. “ The work is all planned out ; our ser- 
vants are excellent, and I could find nothing to do. Papa 
would not tolerate it ; neither would aunt.” 










An Old Picture. 


95 


“ Then teach some poor children, or shall we do it to- 
gether. Will you?” 

“ Yes, yes ! ” 

Three times she came, and worked eagerly ; at the 
fourth lesson she did not appear. “ Oh, darling,” she 
wrote at the fifth time, “do not be vexed if I do not come. 
It makes me so nervous, and the children you chose are 
so terribly stupid. ” 

I gazed at the little flaxen-haired creatures compassion- 
ately. Yes, to be sure, patience was needed here, but 
I had wished to exercise my beautiful fly-away in this 
very virtue. She came another day, not in the slightest 
troubled as to whether I had been offended by her staying 
away, and told me with much irony that yesterday she 
had been to tea with Baroness Berlewitz — she and her 
aunt ; and the seven old-maid daughters had sat there 
and listened reverently to the conversation of the two 
old ladies. Old Baroness Berlewitz had talked of past splen- 
dor and magnificence, and she and Aunt Barbara — Franzi’s 
aunt’s name was Barbara — had discovered quantities of 
common friends, and finally had become greatly excited. 

“ Oh, I was almost bored to death ! Cood gracious, 
Marie, if I am to fade here like the Berlewitz baron- 
esses ” 

“ Oh, you will not,” said I smilingly. “ You will go out 
into the world.” 

“ How, then ? ” 

“You will surely travel.” 

“ No, indeed ! Our circumstances no longer permit it ; 
my brother arranged that,” said she bitterly. 

“ Well, surely your brother, as heir to your possessions, 
entertains ? ” 

“ Papa and we — we are angry with him, because he — 
bah — what concern is it of mine ” 


9 6 


An Old Picture. 


“ Indeed ! ” 

“ No, I see no outlet, absolutely none. I will take an 
opiate and sleep away my youth.” She laughed. “ Or 
shall I — ” she looked at me roguishly. 

“ What?” 

She came quite close to me. “ Shall I take him ? ” 

“ Whom ? ” 

“ The Pastor von Miihlen ! ” 

“ Goodness ! ” said I, gazing at her with wide-opened 
eyes, and suddenly a great light seemed to dawn upon me. 
Mr. von Miihlen was a young clergyman who had been 
our old pastor’s assistant for some months — a quiet, awk- 
ward man, with a pale face and long blonde hair, who drew 
crowds of listeners to the church, where he expressed the 
opinion from the pulpit that our respectable city was 
nothing more than a Sodom or Gomorrah. In his 
glowing young zeal he visited the people in their houses, 
and told them that they did not sufficiently honor the 
Sabbath when they went to walk Sunday afternoons. He 
founded young men’s and young women’s associations, 
and knew exactly who was absent from service on Sun- 
days. Besides, he was through and through a man of 
honor, and the whole city agreed that when his zeal had 
given place to calmer views he would make an excellent 
pastor, and the best preacher who had ever stood in the 
chancel of St. Servatius’ Church. 

“ Him ? ” I asked. “ Does he want to marry you ? ” 

“That depends only upon myself,” she replied. “ For 
two weeks he has daily been our guest ; papa, aunt, and 
he are of one heart and mind.” 

She seated herself at the window of my little room, and 
before I could make any reply she said : “ Let us take a 
walk ; it is so delightful out-of-doors.” 

My mother gave her consent, and we walked along the 


An Old Picture. 


97 



city walls, which had been turned into a promenade. She 
paused in front of St. Servatius’ Church ; it was in a quiet, 
green square, which the promenade led past. Formerly it 
had been a churchyard ; now handsome old lindens, just 
putting out their first leaves, grew there ; under the trees 


were stone benches, around one of which, where sat an old 
lady taking the air, several children played. The church 
door was open, so that the warm spring air might come 
into the lofty building. The parsonage adjoined it, with 
its bright windows, behind which, in the upper story, hung 
the snow-white curtains of the old pastor’s wife. Down- 
stairs lived the assistant, Mr. von Miihlen. 


9 8 


A 7i Old Picture. 


“ See,” said she ; “ from this house to the church, and 
from the church back to the house, would be my path of 
life.” 

“ Oh, life is not confined to this short path, Franzi. 
Behind those windows would be your world, and for all 
its smallness, it could yet be so large and beautiful.” 

“ Do you think so ? ” she asked, and gazed at me ear- 
nestly. “ Sometimes I think so, too,” she continued ; 
“ but then — then it seems to me as though the walls of this 
narrow city were falling upon me'. Oh, I think I am 
spoiled, quite spoiled for anything good.” 

While she spoke, she had walked on quickly, and as we 
turned into the promenade again, just at the turn of the 
street, we met Doris, and she suddenly flushed crimson. 

“ What brings you here ? ” asked Franzi. 

“I am going to see Aunt Rosemann,” stammered Doris. 

Franzi laughed. “ That is the nearest way, little sly- 
boots ! ” — she lived at the opposite end of the city — “you 
probably mistook St. Servatius’ for St. Mary’s.” 

Doris had already recovered herself. “ Every one can 
go where she chooses.” 

“You are right.” 

“I did not ask you what brought you here.” 

“ No, you did not.” 

“ We were taking a walk,” I chimed in, and gazed 
closely at Doris. Surely she was not interested in our 
young rector ! 

“ I hope you will have a pleasant one,” said Doris, ab- 
ruptly taking leave of us. 

“ Good-by ! ” we called, and walked on. 

At the next meeting of “ the wreath ” there was a cer- 
tain unmistakable strained relation. 

“ I thought you went to St. Mary’s ? ” Franzi asked 
Doris, apparently innocently. 


An Old Picture. 


99 


“ So we do,” said the letter, gazing past Franzi. 

“ How do you happen to come to St. Servatius’ so 
often ? ” 

“ I suppose I can go to whatever church I like ? ” 

“ Of course ; pray excuse me, Doris.” 

Doris’ eyes were full of tears. I believe she would have 
given much to be a member of St. Servatius’ congregation, 
and thus better able to guard the secret of her heart. 

Sunday after Sunday, Franzi sat in her pew beside Aunt 
Barbara with the same pale face, and Sunday after Sunday 
Mr. von Miihlen dined with Baron von Schlehen. 

“Franzi,” said I one day — she had sent for me, and 
we sat together under the linden in her father’s garden, 
chatting — “ tell me, how do matters stand with you and 
Miihlen ? ” 

She was lounging lazily in one of the deep garden chairs, 
and gazed over the low wall at the meadow, where a num- 
ber of workmen were busy erecting booths for the shooting 
festival. “ Well,” she replied, “it will be as I said.” 

“ Has he confessed his wish to you ? ” 

“ Not to me, but to aunt.” 

“ And you ? ” 

“ I have asked for time to consider the matter, until — 
until the first of August.” 

“To-day is the twelfth of July. Has he consented to 
wait ? ” 

“ How can he do otherwise ? ” said she. And changing 
the subject, she added : “ That will be a gay scene, over 
there. Only look, look ! These huge wagons, these houses 
on wheels ! It must be a gay life to go all over the world 
thus. Look, Marie, they actually have flowers and curtains 
to the windows of their wheel-houses, and — yes, a canary 
bird ! Can you read what is printed on that wagon ? ” she 
asked. 


oo 


An Old Picture. 


I glanced in the direction where, before one of the 
largest booths, stood a true castle of a van. “ Circus of 
Giacomo Arditi,” I read. 

She did not answer. I had never given a second thought 
to Franzi’s remark that she had once almost fallen in love 
with a circus rider ; even at this moment I did not think 
of it, but only much later. We both gazed at the old lady 
coming slowly down the path, accompanied by Mr. von 
Miihlen. 

They seated themselves near us, in the shadow of the 
linden. 

It was a warm, delightful afternoon. Below us — the 
bank sloped down steeply here — the water murmured with 
a cool, refreshing sound, the meadow was bathed in sun- 
light, and the gay voices of the workmen came over to us ; 
the bright scene was framed in by tall trees, behind which 
rose the mountains. 

“ The devil of enjoyment is about to take possession 
over there,” said Aunt Barbara, giving the workmen, who 
with loud calls were raising a large circus tent, a side 
glance. “ The wicked people will spend their small sav- 
ings for that,” she continued, “ and let the churches fall to 
rack and ruin. What do you think of this popular festival, 
Mr. von Miihlen ? ” 

But he did not answer. His near-sighted blue eyes 
gazed as warmly and tenderly as his spectacles made pos- 
sible at the beautiful girl opposite him. He was so ab- 
sorbed in watching her, so wholly the lover, and so little 
disposed to anathematize and condemn, that he even did 
not hear Aunt Barbara’s cough. 

“H’m ! H’m ! ” said she, still more loudly. 

He started with an alarmed, “ Yes, yes, my dear baron- 
ess — the Bible says ” 

But what it says in this case remained concealed from us, 


An Old Picture. 


IOI 



for on the other side of the river a rider sprang across 
the meadow, and close to the water : a slender, elegant- 
looking man, on a white horse, evidently thoroughbred — 
the animal’s silky tail almost touched the greensward. 
Although no longer young, it was still a beautiful creature, 


and carried the magnificent little head so proudly and 
lifted the small feet so gracefully ; evidently, it must once 
have been of great value. And the man who sat upon it was 
one with the horse — it would be impossible to fancy a more 
perfect rider. Evidently he was exercising the horse, for the 
tent was not yet raised, and so our little group enjoyed 
an exhibition which would delight any connoisseur. 


102 


An Old Picture. 


Then a man came running across the field, and called to 
the rider : “ Mr. Arditi, the carpenter wishes to speak to 
you,” and the horse dashed away at a mad gallop. 

“ Bravo ! ” said the baron, who had just joined us, and 
stared over at the field with a peculiar light in his eyes, 
and then he began to ramble on confusedly — almost as 
though he were talking to himself — that this white horse 
was very similar to one he had seen years before — it could 
not be alive now — at Renz, and for which he had offered 
an absurd price. “ I wanted him for a saddle-horse for — 
well — for a lady,” he continued. “ The first lady rider in 
the circus rode him at that time. — It was not the animal’s 
fault, he was a good-tempered horse, but he has the death 
of his rider on his conscience — threw her head first against 
a hurdle — she was killed instantly.” 

“ A fearful death,” said Aunt Barbara, giving her 
brother, so absorbed in his recollections, an angry glance. 

“ A beautiful death ! ” said Franzi. “To be cut off in 
one’s full strength, during the most charming pleasure ” 

The young pastor coughed. 

“ We pray every Sunday that we may be delivered from 
a sudden, unprepared death,” said Aunt Barbara. 

Franzi lowered her head blushingly, and gave me a sup- 
plicating glance. 

Mr. von Miihlen soon took leave, and it was time for 
me, too. I remained behind with Franzi fora moment ; she 
stared after the clergyman’s thin form with a frown. His 
long frock-coat fluttered about his angular frame as awk- 
wardly as possible. 

“ Oh, Marie, I am bad, I am bad,” said she. “ Now my 
whole nature cries, ‘ No ! No ! ’ Depend upon it, if I 
take him there will be misery, great misery.” 

“ Then say no, if that is your opinion.” 

“Yes, you are right. But listen ; I have such a longing 


An Old Picture. 


103 


for peace, for sunshine coming through bright windows 
into a cosey, homelike room ; for some one who is good, 
very, very good, and would say to me, ‘ My poor little 
Franzi, I am with you ’ — upon whose breast I could lean 
my wild, silly head and could cry out all that torments 
me here ! ” She pressed her hand to her heart. 

At this moment she looked so piteous that I threw my 
arm around her. “ Poor little Franzi, then pray take him ; 
he is good, very good, believe me ! ” 

She buried her face in her hands, and tears trickled 
through her fingers. “Yes, yes, he is, and he inspires 
me with confidence, and I so need a firm hand, but — 
but ” 

“ But ?”' 

“ Oh dear, if he only were a little bit handsomer ! ” 

Although I was vexed, I could not keep from laughing. 
“ Oh, you child, you ! ” said I reprovingly. “ Do what you 
choose ! ” 

“ Do not go away angry ! ” she pleaded, walking beside 
me, and wiping away her tears. 

“ No, no. Good-by. Quiet your heart ; say yes. A thing 
once settled brings peace.” 

She sighed, and stared at the ground, and as I closed the 
door behind me I saw her still standing in the great, dimly 
lighted hall. 

A few days later the shooting festival was in full swing. 
The city was in confusion ; every one visited the shooting 
place, and we of course wished to go too. Everywhere on 
the street corners were posted huge bills advertising the 
spectacles, but the circus bill-posters surpassed all others 
in size and glaring colors. 

“ It must be splendid,” said my big brother. “ I am 
going this evening. They have a wonderful rider.” 

My father wished to buy seats for mamma and myself. 


io4 


An Old Picture . 


but I declined to go, for I have been afraid of horses all 
my life. 

The next day, the weekly papers contained great praises 
of the circus. 

“ The wreath ” met at our house the next afternoon. 
Mr. von Schlehen had not allowed his daughter to invite 
us to his house, because of the doings at the rear of his 
garden ; and so we sat in our garden, which had no view 
except of barns and houses, and dipped our zwieback in 
our thin coffee — mother said that stronger was bad for our 
complexions. 

Toward evening, Peter came to fetch the baroness. 
She whispered to me: “Do not contradict me.” Then 
she said aloud : “ Come again at ten o’clock, Peter ; I will 
stay here this evening.” And Peter went away. That 
suited me very well, for my parents were invited to a silver 
wedding, and my brother had gone to the circus. So I 
pressed her hand joyfully when the man had gone. 

“ That is nice of you, Franzi.” 

“ Oh, I am not going to stay here — you must come with 
me.” 

“ Where ? ” 

“ To the circus.” 

“ The circus ? We two alone ? No, indeed ! And 
only think, you as the future wife of a pastor ” 

“ Oh, it is just that ! Papa and aunt simply forbade me 
to go. But I will go, and you must come with me ; no 
one will recognize us ; we will wear veils. I beg you, dear, 
sweet Marie, do me this favor, and come with me — oh, I 
beg you. I will never ask you to do anything wrong again 
— only this once, please, please ! ” 

She teased and pleaded as though her life depended 
upon the gratification of her wish. Finally I allowed my- 
self to be persuaded, and procured two old shawls, and 


An Old Picture . 


io 5 


\ 


with the help of veils in a few minutes we were unrecog- 
nizable, and slipped into the street. We chose the way over 
the promenade. The shadow was so dense under the 
linden-trees that it would be impossible for any one to 
recognize us. I paused before the parsonage of St. Ser- 
vatius. 

“See, there is a light in his room,” said I. 

“ Yes, yes,” said she ; “ never mind, — perhaps I will often 
sit in that room with him ; but do not speak of that now. 
I will — oh, Marie — I will see the other one only once more, 
only once more ! ” 

I stood still in the dark alley, breathless. “The other ?” 
I stammered. 

She seized my hand and drew me on. “ Yes, the other 
one,” she whispered. “ I told you at that time — of — oh, 
you know — he is here, I recognized him from the garden. 
Darling Marie, I am not going to do anything bad, only 
I must, I must see him a single time more.” 

“ The — the circus rider ? ” 

“ Yes — if you call him that.” 

“ I will not go with you — no, indeed, I will not go with 
you ! ” I cried, beside myself. 

“Very well ; if that is your friendship ” 

She turned away proudly ; then I ran after her. I 
thought that I must not let her go alone. And where was 
the harm ? We were going to the circus, a place to which 
my father himself had given me permission to go, and — 
and 

We soon found ourselves in the crowd in the shooting 
place. I felt quite ‘miserable. The odor of sausages, 
mingled with that of little cakes cooked in fat, the exhala- 
tions from a great crowd of people, the smell of oil-lamps 
and torches, the noise of organs and poor singers, the 
music of the merry-go-round, together with the noise of 


o6 


A ?i Old Picture. 


criers, and bells of the different booths, all made a double 
impression upon me, anxious as I was. Then the crowd 

around me, and the forcing 
our way through it, the dark- 
ness in spite of the moonlight, 
the rough voices of some 
drunken men, all had the effect 
of robbing me of my powers. 
Had not Franziska held me 
firmly by the arm, I believe 
that I would have sunk to the 
ground. 

Near the circus it was 
quieter : I might say, more 
select. The wagons were drawn up in a circle, and from 
within the tent sounded music — and cries of “ Bravo ! ” 
The exhibition had begun. Franzi drew me toward a side 
entrance. 

“ Where are you going ? ” 

“ Here, come in here.” 

We entered a covered passage-way ; it seemed to lead to 
the boxes. There was the brilliantly lighted ring. I saw 
a number of heads in a semicircle. I saw a rider in short 
skirts standing on the back of a galloping horse : — just at 
that moment she sprang through a hoop — then Franzi 
drew me through a small door, and I found myself at the 
foot of a narrow, steep staircase. 

“Up here !” she whispered, and after a moment we 
stood at the entrance of the ten-cent gallery. There 
were no reserved seats. 

“ I am going ! ” I ejaculated in horror — but I stayed. 

An unsaddled horse now stood in the ring — the white 
horse we had recently seen — and a man in a blue jockey- 
suit swung himself upon his back — a “ picture ” of a man, 



An Old Picture. 


107 


as I must admit myself. Such a handsome man ! His 
personality made a wonderful impression upon me ; the 
crowd filling the huge circus-tent seemed to hold its breath. 
It was a strange, indescribable spectacle, this horse and 
this man. What he did, I do not know. I only know 
that it was beautiful, very beautiful ; that I shared all the 
trembling ecstasy of the audience, which burst into mad 
applause as he sprang from the ground upon the back of 
the horse, which in its furious career seemed scarcely to 
touch the ground. 

A half-suppressed scream came from Franzi’s lips, but 
I heard it quite plainly. Then she disappeared. I only 
noticed that she was not at my side when a clown entered 
the ring with a rather coarse jest, and I turned to ask her 
to go. I rushed down the steep stairs in great alarm. 
Down by the entrance to the stable she stood — Franziska, 
Baroness Schlehen ! The veil had fallen from her head, 
the thick shawl had slipped back, her hands were clasped 
over her bosom, and she gazed at him, the circus rider, 
with radiant eyes. And he — he was apparently busy with 
the Arabian, which a groom held by the bridle, and gazed 
at her in surprise, almost in confusion. 

I shook her arm anxiously. Then she prepared to 
follow me ; but she turned her head again, and as I, too, 
looked back I saw him staring after us with the same 
astonished gaze — saw him take off his little blue-and-white- 
striped cap with a respectful bow. 

“ Franzi, you are crazy ! ” I gasped out. “ For 
heaven’s sake, come, come ! ” 

She followed me without a word. And I, when I en- 
tered our empty, peaceful sitting-room, began to cry like 
a child in my alarm. 

“ What has happened ? ” she murmured. “ I did 
nothing.” 


io8 


An Old Picture. 


“ Yes, yes ! ” I cried. 

“ Marie, I give you my word that he does not know me. 
He has no suspicion of who I am. I saw him in Bruns- 
wick. I spent all my pocket money on the circus. But — 



what are you thinking of ? I — I — he pleases me ; nothing 
more.” 

“ And is not that enough ? ” I gasped out. “ No one 
should please you any longer.” 

“ Is that anything wrong?” she asked, almost humbly. 
“ I can rejoice over beautiful flowers, beautiful horses — 
why not beautiful men ? ” 

I made no answer. We sat thus silently by the window 
when Peter came. The kiss, the hot, burning kiss on my 
lips was all the farewell I had, and was the last for many 
a year. 

At that time I had no suspicion of what occurred after- 
ward in Franzi’s dark garden, under the linden, by the rush- 


An Old Picture. 


109 


ing stream. We did not see each other during the next 
week. Then, I remember it as distinctly as though it 
were but yesterday, on a rainy Wednesday, several days 
after the shooting match, my father came from court, and 
my brother from school, and they brought into the house 
the most startling news — news which made my heart 
almost stop beating in alarm. 

“Only think — merciful patience — the girl always seemed 
to me somewhat high-flown, but ” 

“ Who ? ” asked my mother. 

“ Franzi ! ” 

“ Well, he is a fine fellow,” interrupted my brother. 

“ Only think, poor little Marie, Franzi ” 

“ Franzi ?” I stammered. To-day was the first of Au- 
gust. My thoughts flew to the parsonage, as though seek- 
ing help, to the pale, unhandsome young preacher. 

“ Franzi — forget her, my child — has gone astray — she 
has — I am sorry that your pure ears should hear of it — she 
has — she and Signor Arditi, the brother of the director, 
have ” 

“ Gone off — eloped ! ” said my brother, with a laugh. 

But I had fainted away. 

What I suffered I cannot say. My parents took me to 
some friends in a larger city. At home 1 could not re- 
cover, for everything reminded me of my lost friend. I 
do not know how Franzi’s relatives bore the blow ; but I 
learned that her mother had once been a circus rider — 
that Baron Schlehen had married her against his family’s 
wishes, and had passionately loved her — the beautiful 
rider. This fact was some consolation to me. Why, I could 
not say ; probably because it seemed to me some excuse 
for Franzi’s unheard-of act. 

The gossip over this event subsided in time. Probably 
the only one who thought of Franzi on the day of the wed- 


o 


An Old Picture. 


ding of Doris and Mr. vcn Miihlen was I. She lived very 
happily, the quiet, grave Doris, with her husband, who has 
now become as mild as moonlight, and so patient with the 
faults of his congregation. He is stout and portly, and 
Doris has had each one of us five wreath sisters stand 
godmother once. Franzi was no longer reckoned one of 
us. She was an outcast. I was the only one who at times 
thought of her. Baron von Schlehen had moved away. 
Whither, we did not know. 

The other “wreath sisters ” all destroyed the photograph 
of the seven of us ; they no longer wished to be perpetu- 
ated in a picture with Franzi. But I kept it. I felt that 
I was partly to blame, not for having accompanied her to 
the circus at that time, but because my feelings had been 
like hers when I saw her idol ; because I, too, although only 
for a moment, had succumbed to the charm which wholly 
carried her away. 

I was an exception to the rule ; instead of becoming a 
plump matron, I became an authoress, without a husband 
and a room full of children. But I do not doubt in the 
least that the others chose the better part — at least, each in 
turn pitied me for not following her example. 

I travel about the world a great deal, and a short time 
ago I found — but I must be more explicit. It was in a 
large city on the Rhine, and I was crossing the bridge with 
my niece. I thought of anything and any one but Franzi. 

Aunt,” asked the ten-year-old girl at my side, “ will 
you take me to the circus ? ” 

“ Certainly ! Is there one here ? ” 

“Yes, it is coming, aunt ; the wagons are here already.” 

It was so, and my heart stood still as I read on the near- 
est bill-board, “ Circus Arditi.” Franzi ! Franzi ! flashed 
across my mind. Franzi, are you still alive ? It was late 
in the afternoon of a hot summer day ; a true golden glory 


An Old Picture. 


hi 


lay on the Rhine ; the people streamed out of the city gates 
in throngs. Thoughtfully I walked on. 

“Aunt,” cried the child, “I forgot to buy the ribbon 
mamma wanted ; come back to the city.” 

I went back with her through the darkening streets and 
entered a fancy-goods store behind the child. A lady in 
deep mourning stood before the counter. She was slender, 
and seemed strangely familiar to me. 

“Absurd ! ” I said to myself, for I was thinking of Franzi. 
Then I started — that was her voice, the peculiar, veiled 
voice which only she had. 

And now she turned. That is her delicate face, — her 
brown eyes, and espe- x 



daily the eyes ; and yet 
so different, ah ! the 
features so different, dis- 
figured with weeping, 
and furrowed with grief. 


“Franz i,” said I 
softly, “ do you remem- 
ber me ? ” 


She stared at me in 
astonishment. She only 
remembered me when I 
mentioned my name. 
Then she burst into pas- 
sionate sobs, which she 


vainly tried to control. 

“ Go home,” I said to the child ; “tell mamma I have 
met a friend and will not be back to tea.” Then I turned ; 
“ Come, Franzi, I will go with you.” 

She followed me. “ We are in the wagon,” said she. 

“I do not know — whether ” 

“Yes, of course,” said l quickly. 


I 12 


An Old Pi elute. 


“ That I should meet you to-day — ” she murmured. 

“You are in mourning, Franzi. What loss have you 
had ? ” 

“ The greatest,” said she softly. “ He — he — ” and she 
pressed her handkerchief to her lips to suffocate a cry of 
pain. 

In the strange room in the wagon, this jolting, narrow 
home which she had chosen, instead of the respectable 
parsonage, I sat beside her. There was almost every- 
thing in it — a sofa, table, chairs, flowers, a canary bird, 
sewing table, stove — oh ! I cannot remember what all. 
Yonder a laurel wreath and withered bouquets, here a gay 
satin jacket, programmes, hoops, and in the midst of all a 
mourning woman, her hands buried in the fur of a magnif- 
icent white poodle — a genuine circus poodle — sobbed, 
sobbed; even Doris could not sob more violently were fate 
to rob her of her pastor husband. 

“ Franzi, when did he die ? ” 

“ Early this morning.” 

“ Was he ill long, poor soul ? ” 

“ He was thrown in Cologne at the exhibition, and — the 
doctor thought it was nothing serious, and this morning — 
suddenly ” 

“ Poor child ! ” 

“ He is at the churchyard already,” she whispered, 
bursting into heart-breaking sobs again. “ I could 'not 
have him here.” 

“ Have you children ? ” 

“ A son.” She rose. “ Marie, you must see him ; he is 
so handsome, as handsome as his father.” 

She beckoned out of the window of the van, and soon 
after a young man of eighteen entered. He was hand- 
some ; yes, she was right, very handsome, and good, too, 
for, unabashed by my presence, he clasped his mother in 


An Old Picture. 


ii3 


his arms, and both wept together. “ We loved each other 
so, we three,” he said, turning to me as though in excuse. 

Outside in the great tent the music began ; the exhibition 
had begun. He left the van ; she sat and brooded to her- 
self, without a word. 

“ Do you,” she began at last, “ remember how you went 
with me at that time when I wanted to see him ? ” 

“Yes, Franzi, and I have reproached myself for it a 
thousand times.” 

“ Why ? I have been so happy, so happy ! I always 
wanted to write to you, but — would you have opened a let- 
ter from me ? ” 

“ I ? Yes— but ” 

“ But your family would not have permitted it. I 
thought so.” 

And as, involuntarily, I glanced around, there hung the 
picture of us, the seven “ wreath sisters.” “ Heavens, what 
would Mrs. von Mtihlen say if she knew that her picture 
was hanging in a circus van ? ” I thought. 

“ I only kept the picture for your sake,” said she, 
as though she had guessed my thoughts. 

“ And was not life amid such surroundings a bit unusual 
and hard for you, Franzi ? ” 

‘‘All life is hard,” said she gravely ; “but I have been 
happy, happy until to-day. He was so kind and indus- 
trious, and so faithful, and— I loved him.” 

It was late when I rose to go. The crowds had long 
since gone home from the circus. 

“ Day after to-morrow, in the morning, we bury him,” 
said she, “ quite early.” 

I went and stood in the dewy churchyard, at the grave 
of him who was so kind, so industrious, and so faithful. 
Could there be better praise ? 

Then she went away. Shall I ever meet her again ? 


An Old Picture. 


114 


Later, as I stopped in my native city, while on a trip to 
the Harz Mountains, Doris had a reunion in the parsonage 
of the old “ wreath,” as far as was possible. Minna 
chanced to be there also. She had married an officer, and 
was spending some weeks with her mother ; she was so 
pale and quiet, scarcely to be recognized. 

We talked of various matters. “Girls,” said I, suddenly 
thinking of Franzi, “ do you know whom I met on the 
Rhine ? Our Franzi ! ” 


Curiosity, shrugs ! “ Well, pray tell us about it.” 

And I did so. They grew quiet, one after another, and 
Doris had tears in her eyes. When I had finished, her 



husband stood in the doorway, but he turned away 
quickly. 

“ Poor Franzi ! ” murmured some one. 

“ Well, she would not have it otherwise,” said another. 

“ As one makes one’s bed, one must lie ! ” declared 
Madame Julie, and one could see that she had made her 
bed very comfortably, on the handsome estate of her hus- 
band. 


An Old Pictu?'e. 


”5 


Minna, who had grown so pale, delicate, and grave 
since her marriage, whispered something ; I do not know 
whether I understood her rightly. “ So kind, so faithful,” 
she repeated. “ Happy Franzi ! ” 

But Selma, too, must say something. She counted the 
stitches in her child’s stocking, and, beginning a new 
needle, she sighed out, with a highly satisfied air: “Yes, 
yes, such is life ! It takes all sorts to make a world ! 
Thank God, that I know of such things only by hearsay.” 

She was right ; she scarcely put her little stumpy nose 
out of her house all the year round, and was famous for 
her faultless housekeeping and well-bred children. 

“But for you,” she continued, “it is, of course, a rare 
bit, for you are a novelist, and on the look-out for things 
which you can use.” 




THE ROMANCE OF AN OLD 
HOUSE. 


It was about five years ago that I received from the 
court marshal in Z , the important commission to ren- 

ovate a house in the Prince’s summer capital, Falkerode, 
and fit it up for the future residence of Princess Marie, 
who, after scarcely two years of married life, and not yet 
twenty-four years old, had returned a widow to her father’s 
court. 

This lady possessed an extreme love of art and the 
beautiful, and was especially partial to the old German 
style, and wished her home fitted up in accordance with 
this. She wrote to me personally : 

‘‘The beautiful old house in Falkerode, which I wish 
restored and fitted up for me by you, my dear sir, has 
been unoccupied for many years. It was built in the best 
period of the Renaissance, and was once the residence of 
the Prince’s chaplain. When the capital was transferred 

to Z , more than fifty years ago, His Highness, my 

father, had the house closed. 

“ The old building has always interested me, and I beg 
you to make it into a comfortable home for me. You will 
find much damage from neglect, as can be expected ; I 


The Romance of an Old House. 


117 


beg you to send me news of the condition in which you 
find the old building.” 

On a misty September morning, not long after receiving 
these lines, an extra post-chaise travelled slowly along the 
steep road leading through magnificent forests to Falke- 
rode. The summits of the Harz Mountains were veiled in 
thick mists, but shone with a silvery radiance which 
showed that the sun might break forth at any moment. 
The foliage was still green and luxuriant ; only, at the side 
of the road the scarlet mountain-ash berries, peeping out 
from the green leaves, warned one of the approach of 
autumn. A strange fragrance, which I have never noticed 
except in the Harz Mountains, came from the forest. All 
around was solemn stillness, interrupted only by the blow 
of an axe far in the forest. 

I had travelled all night, and consequently was weary, 
and, I confess, not especially charmed with the prospect of 
passing six months or more in the Harz Mountains in a 
former capital which, from all that I heard, was a century 
behind the times, and the most stupid place in the world. I 
had become engaged a few weeks before, and, of course, Her 
Highness’s commission was scarcely opportune : my little 
fiancee had even railed heartily at the caprices of prin- 
cesses ; it sounded almost traitorous, but I fear I should 
have joined in had not an old pointed gabled house, with 
massive sandstone facade, corner towers, and all the orna- 
mentation of the best period of the Renaissance, which has 
as much charm for an architect as a noble deer has for the 
hunter, or a rare painting for the collector, risen in the 
background, although at first with very faint outlines. If 

only it were not so far from D ; if, at least, there had 

been railroad connection between the two places, so that 
I could sometimes spend Sunday with my betrothed, in 
her mother’s cosey sitting-room. But now I must look for- 


The Romance of an Old House. 


118 


ward to the hope of seeing her at Christmas, and that was 
such a very long time off. 

Lost in these thoughts, I had not noticed that we had 
reached the top of the mountain, and was roused only by 
the blast from the post-horn. The postilion blew a low 
song, as though he had guessed my thoughts. 

“ Farewell, ye eyes so deep and blue, 

Which I can gaze into no more ” — 

I whispered to myself ; but then I broke off, and could 
scarcely suppress an exclamation of admiration. The fog 
had broken ; the wooded mountains rose around me, as 
though draped in white veils, and from the summit of one 
of them, in the radiance of the autumn sunshine, rose the 
stately white castle, with its slender towers standing out 
magnificently from the dark background of the beech and 
fir trees. The beautiful scene captivated me. The chaise 
rolled quickly down the mountain, and then turned, passing 
a high iron fence into the castle park, comprising hundreds 
of acres, sloping gently down from the castle to the valley, 
in shaded solitude, and containing quiet lakes, dense 
thickets, and beds of rare flowers ; while plashing foun- 
tains, or the form of a gardener, were the only signs of life 
which my eyes perceived. Then we drove through an 
artistic gateway of wrought-iron, past the princely stables 
to an open place : at our left, bounded by the rock upon 
which stood the castle, in front and on our right, by 
numerous outbuildings ; while an alley of luxuriant horse- 
chestnut trees led down to the tiny city, which, with its 
orchards, nestled at the foot of the mountain. 

“Do you know your way here ? ” I asked the coachman 
on the box. “ I wish to stop at the ‘ Deer.’ ” 

The brown face under the broad-brimmed hat gazed at 
me with a derisive smile. 


The Romance of an Old House . 


119 


“I am a Falkerode child, Mr. Architect. My wife has 
carried messages for thirty-five years up to Bernerode, to 
all the villages and mills. I know every stone and path 
around here ; besides, there is but one inn here. The gen- 
tleman has no choice ; it lies there, around the corner of 
the old chaplain’s house.” 

He pointed with his whip to a tall, gloomy building. So 
this was my destination. 

It was a massive building, with its sharp-pointed roof 
and thick, gray old walls ; from the dim panes of the win- 
dows even the bright autumn sun could not coax a. spark 
of light. A large facade, with the coat of arms of the 
princely house — a springing deer crowned the whole — and 
slated corner towers, with artistically carved niches of 
sandstone, at the sides of the huge entrance, upon the 
round arch of which, as we drove quickly past, I could 
read, 

Anno Domini, 1605. 
completed the decorations. 

I did not rest long in the neat inn. Even the country 
fare of the primitive table d'hdte , which I shared with two 
travelling salesmen and a forester, could not chain me. I 
sent the boy in a short jacket, who was pointed out to 
me as the waiter, to the castellan immediately after dinner 
with the inquiry, when he would take me over the chap- 
lain’s house. For I had been told to apply to this castel- 
lan, as he had received orders to accompany me. 

The old man had gone across the country to the chris- 
tening of a grandchild, the waiter breathlessly reported to 
•me ; his wife had rheumatism, and could not very well go 
with me ; but if I would wait until four o’clock, Dorchen 
would be back from the city by that time, and could open 
the house for me. 

What was left forme ? I must wait for Dorchen, and 


I 20 


The Romance of an Old House. 


the four hours must be passed in some manner. I wrote a 
long letter to my fiancee, but when, after finishing it and 
putting it in the post-bag, I looked at my watch, it was 
just twenty-five minutes of three. I therefore took hat 
and cane, with the intention of roaming around awhile. 

On the open square below the castle it was as solitary 
as before : only a few children, bound on a berrying expe- 
dition, crossed it on their way to the woods, and a young 
forester, a large dog following closely at his heels, disap- 
peared whistling into a house decorated with deer antlers. 

“ The head forester’s house, I suppose,” I murmured to 
myself, and gazed over the square, bounded by buildings. 
What a strange assemblage ! Adjoining the old Renais- 
sance building of the chaplain stood a two-story house, 
also in rococo style, seeking to disguise its decrepitude, 
like some old beauty, under pale pink paint and white 
stucco garlands; then the neat little forestry, built in Swiss 
style, and here — what was that ? 

I had turned my back to the old house, and stared at a 
building which rose from the luxuriant green at the foot of 
the wooded hill upon which stood the castle. Built in the 
form of a Greek temple, six slender Doric pillars, at the side 
of the steps, supported the architrave, with the pediment, 
and upon this the golden letters of an inscription shone in 
the sunlight : 

Apollini et Musis. 

Anno Domini, 1670. 

The theatre of the little court ! 

Involuntarily I glanced about me. Opposite was the re- 
spectable parsonage, gazing scornfully with its dim eyes 
at its frivolous neighbor, lying under its nose so ostenta- 
tiously in true antique beauty. 

“A strange conglomeration,” said I to myself, and 


The Romance of an Old House. 


I 2 I 


walked toward the true object of my journey. Old, well- 
trodden sandstone steps led up to a massive iron-bound 
door ; threatening dragons’ heads, of artistic workmanship 
in bronze, formed the door knob and knocker, and over the 
round archway I read reverently: “Tu mihi Jova salus, 
quid mihi faxithomo. Anno Domini, 1605.” 

After I had inspected the house for some time, and 
thought now with sincere pleasure of my task of renovating 
the beautiful old building, I knew of no better way of pass- 
ing the hours than to visit the castle park, which looked so 
green and shady, behind the iron railings. I wandered 
through the magnificent alleys, mounted the terraces, ad- 
mired the fountains and cascades. There was not a soul 
in sight : everywhere the same uncanny solitude. I strolled 
all around the castle — stood on the round place before it, 
from which there was the most superb view. I gazed up 
at the long rows of closed windows, and crossed the soli- 
tary castle court-yard, but encountered nothing save a 
strong draught. A sentinel stood sleepily at his post ; 
from the sentry-house came a loud yawn. 

“ Perhaps some one will turn me out of here,” I thought, 
secretly hoping to find a living being who would at least 
address' me, however roughly. In vain. I might enter 
through the open portal and wander through all the 
rooms ; at most, I would meet but a ghost. 

And suddenly I really did find myself inside, and mounted 
the broad, carpeted stairs. Folding doors just in front of 
me were open, and allowed free entrance to a drawing- 
room whose walls were almost completely covered with 
portraits. .Cleaning seemed to be going on here, for 
brooms and cloths lay on the floor, and the blinds of 
one of the windows were thrown open. I merely noticed 
these things casually, for near the entrance my attention 
was enchained by the magnificently executed portrait of a 


122 


The Romance of an Old House. 


lady in the splendor fashionable about the middle of the 
seventeenth century. From the crimson velvet of the 
gown rose a beautiful white throat, upon which was set 
a delicate head covered with brown curls, and turned 
coquettishly slightly to one side. The small face, with a 
pair of romantic blue eyes under dark brows, was inde- 
scribably attractive, but the short, delicate nose and 
almost too full red lips seemed scarcely in keeping with 
the dreamy expression of the eyes. Yet the face was en- 
chanting in its beauty. “ Louise Charlotte, Princess of Z.,” 
I read on the frame. “ She died unmarried, in the eighty- 
fifth year of her life,” had been added. 

I did not venture to continue my investigations further, 
but, as I left the room, turned to glance once more at the 
beautiful face, whose thoughtful eyes seemed to follow 
me ; and as I went down the steps, I meditated upon 
what could have been the reason that this charming prin- 
cess remained a spinster. And as I had nothing to do, and 
my imagination had been excited by the ghostly, solitary 
castle, I thought of romances, in which, of course, the 
beautiful Louise Charlotte was always the innocent sufferer. 

I reached the court-yard unseen, and sought out a charm- 
ing arbor ; boldly raised the silken cord of the colors of 
the country, which seemed to forbid admittance, and 
seated myself upon a comfortable bench, charmed by the 
beautiful mountain landscape which lay before me, bathed 
in the light of a late afternoon sun. I imagined this 
castle as it was two hundred years ago, at a time when 
the princess lived, and the little theatre below was just 
built. I remembered that the princely family is still proud 
of the fact that it was the first to encourage dramatic art 
in Germany. In spirit, I saw a venerable court chaplain 
at the window of his house, watching the people stream- 
ing into the temple in sinful foolishness and longing for 


The Romance of an Old House. 


123 


amusement, and I thought I heard his sigh. Who knows, 
perhaps the beautiful princess was a patron of comedy ? 
I began another romance in which she secretly loved an 
actor, and remained unmarried for this reason. And in 
adding further incidents to this tale my fatigue overcame 
me, and I fell asleep on the princely seat in the forbid- 
den arbor. 

The castle clock struck six when I awoke, and the un- 
known Dorchen was to wait upon me at four ! Twilight 
was already descending upon the mountains, the wind had 
risen, and black clouds lay in the west, tinged with a daz- 
zling radiance by the setting sun. I hurried through the 
winding walks down the hill, past the theatre, and soon 
stood, breathing heavily, before the door of the old chap- 
lain’s house. It was ajar, a huge key was in the lock on 
the outside ; so some one was waiting for me. 

A loud creak accompanied the opening of the heavy 
door, and a broad hall lay before me whose corners were 
already dark. I closed the door behind me and waited for 
Dorchen ; there was not a sound in the whole house. 

“ Is everything bewitched and under a spell here ? ” I 
thought angrily, and opened and closed the creaking door 
violently several times. It made a great noise, which was 
echoed by the walls, but nothing stirred. 

I had time enough to take a thorough observation of my 
surroundings : the ceiling was supported by massive dark 
rafters; round-arched doors, with several steps leading up to 
them, broke the walls in various places ; there was a broad 
staircase with carved iron banisters, and at the right and 
left two round doorways, probably leading to the kitchens 
or garden. The walls, once whitewashed, were adorned 
with life-size portraits in oils, framed in black wooden 
frames, but so covered with dust and cobwebs and black- 
ened with age that I could scarcely distinguish the por- 


124 


The Romance of an Old House. 


trait of a clergyman of long-forgotten times. I stared at 
it for a moment, forgetting my waiting in its inspection. 

“ Old fossil ! ” I said aloud ; “ and probably that is why 
he is left here.” 

And once more, after listening to see whether some one 
were not finally coming, I was about to go, so that I might 
not run the risk of being locked in, when I heard a soft, 
shuffling footstep, and in a moment the bent form of a 
little old woman appeared on the staircase leading from 
the upper story — a quaint figure in an old-fashioned lawn 
cap, with spectacles pushed up on her forehead. She carried 
a long white stocking, upon which she had been knitting, 
in her knotty hands, and she now pushed it under her arm, 
while with trembling fingers she loosened a bunch of keys 
hanging at her side. Could this be Dorchen ? I had 
formed a very different idea of her. 

However, at least she would unlock the house. With- 
out saying a word, she went up-stairs again, and I followed 
her up the creaking stairs, across a marble-paved floor. 
She paused before an oaken door, black with age, and 
opened it. I entered an almost empty room, in which was 
only a hideous green porcelain stove, a table covered with 
papers, and a chair. 

“ Has this house been long unoccupied ? ” I asked my 
silent guide. 

A silent nod was my answer ; but she drew up the chair 
as though inviting me to take a seat. 

“ What are these papers ? ” I asked. 

“ An old plan of the house,” she replied, “ which His 
Highness had made years ago when he thought of re- 
building.” 

“ Oh, indeed ! It is well that it has been preserved ; it 
will save me work. Is the house completely empty ? ” I 
continued my inquiries. “ No more furniture or hangings ? ” 


The Romance of an Old House. 


125 


“ Some old rubbish, sir, and what is in the cupboards ; 
nothing else.” 

She coughed, and then continued : 

“A while ago Dorchen found a pile of old papers in this 
room, there in the cupboard by the stove. She tied them 
together and put them back. We discovered the cup- 
board accidentally ; it was covered with tapestry, and may 
have been unopened for a long time, for the papers have 
become yellow and are worm-eaten. They are so mouldy 
that they are almost in pieces.” 

I listened silently. The old woman’s voice was very 
monotonous ; it had grown almost dark, and the close air 
was very oppressive. 

“ I cannot go over the house this evening,” I said then. 

“Yes, the gentleman was not very punctual. Whose 
fault is it ?” replied the old woman, rather reproachfully. 
“ Dorchen sat here in vain for two hours. Then she rum- 
maged about. She says it was not tiresome waiting, for 
she read the old papers. But she had to get supper, so 
she has gone. She knows better about the house than I 
do ; I can tell you nothing.” 

I stood there absorbed in thought, vexed that the day was 
lost. I had promised the Princess to write her at once my 
first impressions. I would have so gladly begun an ac- 
count during the long autumn evening, and what could I 
do now ? Sleep ! My nap had refreshed me. Drink 
punch ! I was not in the mood. But I must do some- 
thing — 

Then a thought occurred to me. 

“ Could I have a light, some supper, and fire here ? ” 
I asked. “ I should like to do some work.” 

The old woman was vexedly silent. 

“ I will ask Dorchen,” she murmured, and slowly shuf- 
fled to the door. 


126 


The Romance of an Old House. 


After a while the door creaked loudly, and in the dim 
twilight I saw the woman tottering over the square ; the 
wind blew her clothes about her, and the first drops of 
rain beat against the window-panes. 

I stood for a long time gazing over at the castle and the 
little theatre. I felt strangely in the desolate old house, 
around which the wind now howled so loudly, and in the 
uncanny twilight about me. How many scenes of human 
joy and misery these old walls might have witnessed, how 
many children rfiay have been born here, how many men 
carried out ; and all had met the common fate — joy and 
misery, disappointment after disappointment. What one 
might learn, could these old walls but speak ! 

An hour might have elapsed, when the old knocker 
rattled again; it sounded much more brisk than before; then 
a woman’s light step hurried up the stairs and approached 
my door ; with a pleasant “ Good-evening ! ” the door 
was opened, and a young girl appeared on the threshold, 
in her hand a lantern, whose light fell upon her fresh face. 
On her arm she carried a basket, from which protruded 
invitingly the neck of a bottle. Without saying much, she 
went quickly to work to make the room comfortable : 
first, the stove, in whose wide cavern the logs were soon 
crackling briskly ; then, in an instant, a table was brought 
from an adjoining room. The dust, which was inch thick 
upon it, was wiped away, a dazzlingly white cloth was 
spread over it, and cold cakes and wine were set out appe- 
tizingly. A huge arm-chair with worn covering soon 
stood before it ; the blinds were closed, the lamp lighted, 
and the room looked as cosey as an empty room possibly 
can. 

When the pretty girl had finished her task, she paused 
and gazed at me with a smile. 

“ It is strange, Mr. Architect,” she began ; “ it is so cosey 


The Romance of an Old House. 


127 


in the evenings in the sitting-room at my uncle’s, the 
keeper of the ‘ Deer ; ’ they have fine beer, and fish from 
the castle pond — delicate carp ; all the officials are there, 
even the chief forester and the bailiff ; and you sit in the 
old ghostly house and wish to study, as grandmother says.” 

“ I think you, too, have done that to-day, Miss Dorchen. 
You even made a discovery, did you not ? ” 

She nodded. 

“Yes, indeed; but you would not care for that: a 
wofnan wrote it ; her name was Christiana, and she lived 
here in this house, and was the pastor’s daughter. I 
learned that much. There are the papers.” 

With difficulty she opened a small cupboard set in the 
wall ; a cloud of dust flew out, and yellow dust covered 
her little black apron. She laid several yellow sheets be- 
fore me, tied with a faded ribbon. 

“ Perhaps you will read it through, sir. If it is inter- 
esting, you can tell me: Good-night. The door can stay 
open, there is nothing here to steal. Grandpapa may be 
back from the christening at any moment,” she added, 
“ and I want to be home then.” 

I heard her hurry down the stairs, and the door 
creak ; then I was alone. I ate my supper absently, for 
my eyes rested as though charmed upon the old papers ; 
then I drew the moth-eaten arm-chair up to the stove, and 
the table with the papers beside it, and prepared to look 
at the plans, but almost mechanically I reached over them 
for the yellow packet, and, beginning to read, I forgot 
everything else in its contents. 

Outside, the wind rattled the shutters, which sighed and 
groaned mysteriously all over the lonely old house ; but it 
soon was no longer lonely to me, for those who had once 
lived here again wandered through the rooms, alive and 
real. 


128 


The Romance of an Old House. 


And here, as later I wrote it down from the tattered 
sheets, for my little fiancde to read at Christmas, is a por- 
tion of a human life, in long-forgotten times: 

“ Tu mihi Jova salus, 

Quid mihi faxit homo,” 

“ stands written over the door of this house in which I was 
born and have lived until now, and which I will only leave 
when I am carried out a dead woman. I know that when 
I am dead my mouth will wear a smile, for my longing 
will then be satisfied. 

“ That is a beautiful proverb, and yet it was a long time 
before I understood it, for I have been bitterly wronged, 
so bitterly and so deeply that my heart did not even wish 
to hear of God, since He permitted me to be treated thus. 

“ Much sorrow and great trials fell to my lot ; trials 
which bound me with heavy chains for years, and when my 
lot became easier, and my sad heart turned again to Him 
who watches over all fates, I saw in my mirror a sunken 
face and gray hairs. It is so with many. Youth violently 
and defiantly opposes misfortune ; then gradually strength 
gives way, mildness and humility return after their long 
absence, and finally we fold our hands thankfully, and 
say : ‘ If Thou art for me, who can be against me V 

“Therefore I can write down, in all calmness, what for 
so long a time was a burning torment to me. I should 
like all those whom in my misery I have pained, and yet 
who had many a kind word for the hard, solitary woman 
who walked past them as a stranger, to read it. May they 
be rewarded for their kindness, both in this world and the 
next. And so then, in God’s name, I begin : 

“ Anno Domini , 1699. 

“ It was nearly fifty years ago that my cradle was 
rocked here in this very same room. It was on a Sunday 


The Romance of an Old House. 


129 


in August. Sunday children are said to be very fortu- 
nate. And I was often enough told of this. Cousin 
Wieschen even said that a Sunday child, such as I, born 
to the sound of church bells, knew many things such as 
ordinary beings could not understand — the song of birds, 
for instance : but her prophecy has never come true ; 
there are exceptions to every rule. 

“ I know little of my early childhood, only that our 
house was a very quiet one ; for the court chaplain, my 
father, was a thin, gloomy man, whose grave mouth I never 
saw smile. He always sat in his study absorbed in his 
books, if his clerical duties did not demand his presence 
in church or school ; and I remember well the many 
quiet hours in the great sitting-room at the left-hand side 
of the hall, with the heavy oak table between the windows, 
the gay porcelain stove, the small lounge on the plaster 
floor covered with crackling sand. In the deep window 
my mother sat spinning or sewing, and I at her feet, thread 
tied in my needle, and a bright bit of cloth in my child- 
ish hands, eagerly imitating her, while Cousin Wieschen, 
an old woman, a relation of my mother, who had found shel- 
ter in our house, told me amusing or terrible fairy stories. 

“ The old woman’s lips became silent as soon as my 
father entered the room ; he called her a superstitious 
woman who sinned deeply, and would hardly go to heaven 
did she persist in her unbelief. The old woman would 
bow her head at this, but raise it all the more triumph- 
antly when the stern man left the room. 

“ ‘ And it is true,’ she asserted boldly, ‘ there is a wild 
huntsman, and there are witches and gnomes up in the 
woods whose existence even highly learned clergymen can- 
not mock at, although they fight against them with blessings 
and curses, Cross and the Bible ; and if I only had a charm, 
they could not hurt this house.’ 

9 


130 


The Romance of an Old House. 


“At the time of the summer vacation the house and gar- 
den were gay. Then one evening with the sunset arrived 
two slender young fellows, heated and dusty, but their 
faces radiant, and mother stood at the door, and her face, 
usually so grave, smiled a welcome to them. But from the 
kitchen came the odor of my brothers’ favorite cake. 

“ Ah, that was a delight for me, who usually was so 
wholly without all youthful enjoyments. When the sons 
had been rigidly examined by their stern father, when the 
mother’s eyes had gazed at them sufficiently, and she was 
now absorbed in mending their torn clothes, and making 
new ones, then we went out into the shady garden, into the 
green forest, so far that no one met us, and only an occa- 
sional deer would break through the thicket, or a vulture 
call high up in the sky above us. I never need dread a 
long walk ; when my feet were weary my brothers would 
pick me up and carry me on their crossed arms. ‘ Carry- 
ing an angel,’ we called it ; and there I sat between them, 
a green wreath on my blonde braids, a bouquet of wild 
flowers in my hand, like a princess in her sedan-chair, and 
the young faces smiled at me from each side. 

“A handsome pair, in truth, slender as pine-trees, and 
supple as the birches which grew in our forests, between 
the beeches of all kinds — both brave, both dear to me, 
but Conrad was always the handsomest, best, and bravest. 
Although he was much quieter and did not tease me so 
much, although his laugh was not so merry, yet one word 
from his mouth made me happier than the tenderest pet 
names with which Walter overwhelmed his little sister. 

“ My favorite spot was the princely pleasure garden. I 
could lie there for hours in some secluded nook, and gaze 
through the thick foliage at the castle, which seemed to 
look past me arrogantly with its proud rows of windows. 
All that had happened, or would happen, as my childish 


The Romance of an Old House. 


r 3i 


imagination depicted to me, interested me greatly; and 
when my father came back from the castle, where he went 
twice each week, I never left his room until I had heard 
whether he had seen Princess Liselotte. 

“ Princess Liselotte ! How often I dreamed of her, 
how often I watched behind the bushes of the castle hill 
only to see her drive quickly past. Then I would press 
my hands together, and hold my breath with delight : there 
could never be anything more beautiful in my eyes than the 
round, rosy face under the brown curls which clustered 
charmingly around the delicate head and were arranged 
in the latest fashion, a la paysanne /. the brilliant dark 
blue eyes, and the full little mouth, always wearing such a 
happy smile. Oh, I can see her so plainly to-day, in her 
pink silk stomacher, cut low and showing her white neck, 
and fitting the slender body so tightly. I can still see 
the glittering spangles, and fancy I hear the velvet train 
rustling behind Princess Liselotte. 

“ Each time that her carriage rolled past our house the 
silk curtains were slightly raised, and her eyes sought our 
window ; my mother would then rise and make a reveren- 
tial courtesy, which was usually acknowledged by a charm- 
ing wave of the small hand, in its gold-embroidered glove. 
Oh, Princess Liselotte was always favorably disposed to 
our house, and she was Conrad’s godmother, and each 
year sent him ten bright Mansfeld thalers for his savings 
box, while His Serene Highness, the Princess’ brother, 
had promised him a handsome stipend, and that, after 
father retired, he should be court chaplain. 

“Often my mother said to me, when the Princess’ 
coach rolled through the iron gateway of the castle park : 
‘ Go to the doorway, Christiana, and render a courtesy ; 
Princess Liselotte is coming.’ And then I would stand 
on the steps, my childish heart beating rapidly, and see 


132 


The Romance of an Old House. 


the beautiful woman’s head lean forward. And yet, some- 
times, it seemed to me that the smile left her lips when she 
gazed at our house. 

“ Princess Liselotte remained unmarried. ‘ She refuses 
all suitors,’ declared Cousin YVieschen. Cousin Wieschen 
also said that she was arrogant and frivolous. I did not 
like to hear that, and I began to cry. 

“ ‘ What do you care about the stupid Princess?’ Walter 
used to say ; but Conrad took me by the hand, and we 
wandered in the castle park, and while I thought of all 
sorts of things, he rested his pale, noble face upon his 
hands, and read until, in the twilight, he could no longer 
distinguish the letters. 

“ The Sundays of my childhood shine in my remem- 
brance like golden stars. How solemn it was, even at 
awakening ; how festive the frock of green wool, in which 
Cousin Wieschen dressed me, seemed. The whole house 
smelled delightfully of pine, which we had brought from 
the forest the day before, and which, broken into small 
bits, lay on the white sanded floor. We scarcely spoke at 
breakfast, which on this day father did not share with us. 
At the first sound of the bells, he would come out of his 
room, clad all in black, and would walk with measured 
tread to the castle ; for at that time service was held in the 
chapel which lay within the princely apartments, and 
from which one passed directly into the great banquet- 
hall. When the bells rang for the third time we followed 
to church ; but on my prayer book I always found a fresh 
bouquet, usually of red and variegated pinks, whose aro- 
matic perfume I preferred to that of all other flowers. 

“ Conrad did that ; and then I would take his hand, and 
we would walk together, mother with Walter, who wore a 
twig of oak in his cap. 

“ 1 did not understand much of father’s sermons, and 


The Romance of an Old House. 


133 


remember but one of them — that on the day when Conrad 
and Walter were confirmed. All the rest were like empty 
words in my ears, for I always saw but one person in the 
church — Princess Liselotte. Often, at our Sunday suppers, 
when father asked us the text of his sermon, to see whether 
the seed he had sown had fallen on good ground, I could 
make no answer, and he would say angrily : ‘ Dreamer, 
where were your thoughts in God’s house ? ’ 

“ 5ut it was often the same with Conrad, and that was 
even worse, as he was destined to become a clergyman. 
And it was so one particular Sunday. At that time he was 
sixteen years old, and thought of leaving the gymnasium 
that autumn, so as to begin his theological studies , in 
Helmstadt. 

“ It was after communion, and a rain-storm kept us in 
the house ; only Walter had gone over to the forester’s to 
play with the dogs, and listen to the forester’s boys’ tales 
of strange adventures. In the twilight I stood by the win- 
dow and gazed over at the castle, where one light after 
another shone out, but Conrad leaned against the deep 
framework opposite me, and gazed dreamily out at the 
storm. Mother was busy in another room. 

“ ‘ What do you think, Conrad ? ’ suddenly asked 
father’s voice close beside us, so that we started in alarm. 
‘ What do you think of the explanation of the Lord’s 
prayer which I gave to-day in my sermon ? It is written, 
“ Lead us not into temptation.” Our Lord endured this 
triumphantly, but can it be reckoned such a great sin in a 
weak man if he is not so firm when he is tempted and daz- 
zled by hellish powers ? ’ 

“ His pale young face flushed crimson, and he was silent 
for a moment. 

“ ‘ I should not venture to decide,’ he then answered. 

“ ‘ Because you are too lazy to think over the matter ! ’ 


134 


The Romance of an Old House. 


burst out my father angrily, ‘ or else you would be forced 
to say : “ With our own strength alone we cannot resist 
such temptation; only if God graciously sends us help can 
we do so.” ’ Father had spoken with unusual violence. 
He continued : ‘ You should devote your attention more to 
such subjects. What are you thinking of ? What foolish 
ideas is your mind running upon ? Is it proper for a 
future theological student to write verses which, in color 
and passion, vie with those you read in Ovid ? ’ 

“ And he angrily held a piece of paper before his son’s 
eyes ; but with one spring the latter had left the window, 
and fell on his knees before his father : 

“ ‘ I beg you,’ he cried, fairly beside himself, ‘let me 
choose another profession more suited to my nature.’ 

“ The grave man made no answer ; the room was 
strangely quiet ; only the rain beat against the windows, 
and the wind shook the shutters. 

“ ‘ Leave the room, Christiana,’ commanded my father ; 
so I went, and seated myself in the kitchen with folded 
hands, for I suspected vaguely that the happiness or 
wretchedness of a human life was to be decided in there. 
Cousin Wieschen sat and slept, and a cricket chirped on 
the hearth ; then mother crossed the sanded floor with a 
light step, the door closed, and it was quite still for a long 
time. 

“ Then faltering steps crossed the hall ; they were Con- 
rad’s. I rose to follow him ; but I heard mother whisper : 

“ ‘ Conrad ! Conrad ! Let me speak to you, my darling 
child. Have we not always cared for you as faithful par- 
ents ? ’ 

“ But he rushed up-stairs ; mother hurried after him. A 
door closed up-stairs, and with anxious heart I crept into 
my little room, which I shared with Cousin Wieschen, and 
there I lay, and could not sleep. 


The Romance of an Old House. 


135 


“ The old cousin had long been asleep, when I heard 
steps on the porch of the house. I threw my red cloak 
over me and crept out ; there I saw Conrad in the dim 
light, which the moon gave in spite of the clouds. He sat 
on the top step, his face buried in his hands. I ran to 
him and threw my arms around his neck. ‘ Conrad, why 
do you cry ? ’ Then he raised his face ; it looked rigid as 
that of a corpse. I crouched beside him and caressed 
him, and accidentally touched his travelling valise, which, 
together with his staff, lay beside him. 

“* What are you going to do, dear, darling Conrad ? ’ I 
asked, in alarm. 

“ ‘ I do not know, Christiana ; my head is so hot. I 
would rather go away and never come back ; but, best of 
all, I would like to die.’ 

“ ‘ But do you not love mother ? ’ I asked, in the great- 
est alarm. Then he started as though bitten by a serpent, 
and began to weep bitterly. 

“ So we sat silently, side by side, and finally he kissed 
me and said : ‘ Go to bed, Christel ; you do not under- 
stand why I am crying.’ And he took me in his arms so 
that my bare feet should not touch the cold floor, and I 
kissed him again and threw my arms around him, and 
called him my dear, darling brother, and asked him 
whether he would not go to bed and stay with us. I 
heard him say * Yes,’ but it sounded very hesitating. 

“ The next day no one would have thought anything 
strange had occurred. Conrad humbly kissed our par- 
ents’ hands when he came to breakfast ; he was calm, 
although he had dark lines under his eyes and was very 
pale. The day passed quietly ; it was the last day of the 
vacation, and early the next morning, at the first cock- 
crow, the brothers walked to school once more — for the 
last time, since in October Conrad was to go to Helm- 


136 


The Romance of an Old House. 


stadt, but Walter was to enter our Prince’s service as 
forester. And so they took leave of us, Walter full of 
smiles ; Conrad, grave and silent as ever. 

“ I do not know how it happened, but since that night 
I could think of nothing but my eldest brother ; his pale 
face rose again and again to my mind, and how bitterly he 
had wept. At times I longed to asked mother what grief 
tormented him, but I was silent from timidity, for she 
never answered inquisitive questions, and what I should 
know she told me voluntarily. 

“ And so two years passed without the occurrence of 
anything remarkable. Conrad came home occasionally, 
and he always seemed to me paler and quieter than for- 
merly, and yet more manly and dignified. I could not 
look at him enough ; and when he stood before father and 
told him of the newest questions which the learned gentle- 
men of Helmstadt discussed together, speaking in a soft 
voice, coldly, almost indifferently, I felt sorry for him, and 
yet I did not know why. But his quiet manners and calm- 
ness pleased father. ‘ It will become him well when he 
stands in the chancel,’ I heard him say to my mother. 
But after father had gone Cousin Wieschen remarked : 
‘ Fever heat of passion leaves him like ice.’ 

“ On the fifth of May of the following year — the day 
before, seventeen candles had burned on my birthday 
cake — misfortune came to us. My father had a stroke of 
paralysis which deprived him for a short time of the power 
of speech and paralyzed his left side, so that he could not 
walk or move his arm. There was great sorrow in our 
house. Walter hurried home, and we thought that father 
would surely die. But Cousin Wieschen was on hand, with 
her vials and boxes of powerful extracts of herbs and sal 
volatile ; and when the court physicians entered the sick- 
room father had already opened his eyes again, and they 


The Romance of an Old House. 


*37 


sought my mother’s face, and then the picture of the 
crucified Christ which hung beside his bed. 

“ The doctor reassured us, and said that bleeding would 
soon relieve him. We left the room, but when, after a 
while, Dr. Grundmannus came into the sitting-room, he 
said to my mother : 1 Madam, he will not die ; but he 
can never resume his duties, for he will be paralyzed all 
the rest of his life.’ This made us very sad, for father 
was still young and strong, scarcely fifty-six years old, 
and would gladly have served the church for a long time 
yet. 

“ But in the afternoon came a letter from His Serene 
Highness, stating that a substitute should be engaged 
until such time as Conrad had finished his studies, so that 
father must not be uneasy about his congregation. And 
Princess Liselotte daily sent her page to inquire for father, 
and on the little table beside the bed stood the most 
tempting delicacies from the princely table. It was not 
many days later that Conrad wrote to me for news of 
father’s illness. It was the first letter I had ever received 
from him, and I read it many times ; and although I could 
have given no reason for doing so, I could have wept over 
it. ‘ I am very sorry for father,’ he wrote, ‘ for it must be 
hard to lie there with paralyzed limbs when one would fain 
be out in the fresh May air, although it cannot be harder 
than where one’s soul, which longs to soar high on its 
pinions, is borne down by heavy chains which — but that 
you will never understand, little sister, and it is better that 
this longing should be unknown to you.’ 

“ It was evening when I read this letter in my little 
room overlooking the garden ; I sat by the open window, 
and it touched me strangely, so that I leaned my head 
on my hand, and stared out at the whispering linden 
branches through which shone the sunset glow. What 


i3 8 


The Romance of an Old House. 


made his heart so heavy, when he was young and should 
be happy ? Why had he begged that day to choose some 
other calling than that of preaching God’s word ? Is it not 
a high and sacred office, and is not our home peaceful and 
beautiful, with its solid old house and quiet garden be- 
hind ? Did we not all love him dearly, and was it not an 
honor for him to be called to take father’s place when so 
young ? ‘ What could it be ? What could it be ? ’ I re- 

peated aloud, just as Cousin Wieschen noiselessly crossed 
the threshold. 

“ The old woman seated herself in the high-backed 
chair which I had left. I swung myself up on the broad 
window-seat and folded my arms. She pretended that 
she had not heard my question, and I said nothing more. 

“ ‘ You are now seventeen years old,” she began, after a 
long silence — ‘ old enough to know the thing ; others of 
your age already have a husband and child. But you 
must promise to tell no one, and to act as though you did 
not know what I tell you, or evil will come of it. If you 
will do this, say twice, “ Really and truly ! ” and give me 
your hand on your promise. 

“ ‘ Really and truly,’ I repeated. 

“ ‘ Listen, there is a nightingale singing,’ whispered the 
old woman. ‘ How sweet that sounds. In my youth it 
sounded even sweeter and more beautiful.’ She paused a 
moment ; her thoughts seemed far away. Suddenly she 
leaned forward and looked me directly in the eyes. 

“ ‘ He is not your brother , child ,’ said she. ‘ Oh ! why 
are you so startled ? Have you never guessed that ? ’ And 
then she took my hands, for I had slipped down from the 
window-seat and stood trembling before her, and she forced 
me down on the bench at her feet. 

“‘You need not be so horrified. Conrad is a noble 
fellow. What fault of his is it that his mother was a faith- 


The Romance of an Old House. 


i39 


less, dishonorable woman ? One could say much of such 
affairs, which begin with youth and beauty, with roses and 
nightingales, and end in remorse and heartache. Conrad’s 
father has long been dead. God rest his soul ! But his 
mother — his mother lives in splendor, luxury, and honor. 
She can still laugh as happily as at that time, and she is 
still beautiful, only sometimes her heart gives a throb when 
she has seen his pale young face. And now do not ask 
any questions. I will tell you myself. That is why Con- 
rad is so sad ; more passionate blood than ours flows in 
his veins ; it rebels against the yoke forced upon him, 
against the hard lot awaiting him. He would like to go 
out into the bright, gay world, and she who bore him will 
never permit that. He must be your father’s successor ; 
he must not turn his eyes to the world where his mother 
lives. That is his grief. God grant that he may recover 
from it. A plant in too small a pot breaks it, or withers 
and dies ; it is a dangerous game which is being played 
with the poor boy.’ 

“ ‘ Who is his mother, cousin ? ’ I asked. The blood 
rushed to my head, and my heart beat violently. 

Speak softly,’ said the old woman. ‘Are you stupid, 
Christiana ? I thought you were a sensible girl. Who — 
who is she ? I could tell you, but your father would 
stone me and turn me out of the house if her name crossed 
my lips. Wait, I will show you something ; perhaps you 
can guess.’ 

“ And she rose and went to the end of the room, where 
stood a chest with red tulips and roses painted upon it. 
She opened it, and knelt down before it, and, by the last ray 
of the setting sun, she took a little bundle out of it, and 
when she untied it there were little things, wonderfully 
fine, lace-trimmed, but yellow with age, within. My cousin 
laid a kerchief in my hand ; it was daintily embroidered 


140 


The Romance of an Old House. 


and trimmed with Brabant lace ; in the corner a coat of 
arms was embroidered with gold thread, and as I in- 
spected it more closely I recognized the springing deer 
which was the coat of arms of our princely family. 

“ ‘ He lay in that when he was brought to your parents — 
fine swaddling clothes, eh ? They must have wrapped him 
in it in all haste. I kept it carefully, and not without in- 
tention either, you may believe, Christel : show it to him 
sometime later — later ; then, when he has overcome his hot 
youthful longing, it will be of use to him. But never tell 
your father, child, not for any consideration.’ 

“ I still held the fine kerchief in my hand and stared at 
the gold-embroidered crest, and gradually the strangely 
curved letters underneath became plain. L. C., ‘ Louise 
Charlotte,’ flashed through my mind, and ‘ Liselotte, ’ I 
screamed, so that it rang piercingly through the room. 

“ The old woman tore the kerchief from my hands and 
threw it into the chest. ‘ Are you mad ? ’ she whispered. 
‘Shall your mother come, or your father ask why you 
screamed? Go and sit by the window,’ and she lifted me, 
and forced me into the arm-chair, and took her smelling 
salts from her pocket and let me inhale them, as I could 
not control myself. 

“ ‘ Oh, what is the use of being so affected ? ’ she scolded. 
‘ Does the fact that his mother was a high-born lady alter 
the case ? It remains the same, and he is no longer your 
brother, but can be something else to you, far dearer and 
more delightful. This has long been my cherished plan. 
You have become a pretty girl, Christel ; your hair shines 
like gold, and you have a complexion like apple blossoms, 
and you are quiet and sensible. Be careful. It will be as 
I say, little lamb ; then think of me on your wedding day, 
if I am no longer alive.’ 

“ And she petted me and coaxed, and I feigned calm- 


The Romance of an Old House. 


141 


ness, so that she would go. Then I bolted the door be- 
hind her, and buried my glowing face in the cushions of 
the arm-chair and cried, as I had never cried before in my 
life, so that I gasped for breath. Hours passed before I 
raised my head again ; it had become night, a dark, warm 
May night ; the air was sultry, and the nightingales sang 
loudly in the linden-trees. That sounded so differently 
from formerly, and now I could understand Conrad, but I 
no lorfger understood myself. 

“ A dreaminess had come over me which paralyzed my 
nature, formerly so fresh and active, and many a word of 
reproof did I receive from my mother. She also consulted 
the doctor, who said that I was too lonely among so many 
older people ; that I should seek a playmate, and laugh and 
be happy, as was suited to my years. But I would hear of 
no one, and preferred to sit quite alone under the linden 
in the garden, hear the nightingales sing, and think of 
Princess Liselotte and Conrad. And then, when the night- 
ingales had grown silent and sat on their nests in the 
thicket of elder bushes, I still thought of their singing. 

“One morning in July, a woman came to the house and 
brought a letter. It was from my father’s only sister, who 
w^as married to a forester in Harzgerode. She wrote that 
she was dying, and begged her brother to have pity upon 
her only little daughter. The woman who brought the 
letter also brought the news of my aunt’s death, and that 
the girl had thrown herself upon her dead mother’s body 
in despair, and there was no one to comfort her. Then 
Cousin YVieschen quickly got into a wagon and drove over 
to Harzgerode, for father still lay on his couch of pain, 
and mother was unwilling to leave him. 

“ I must make up a bed in the alcove room, and mother 
gave orders that I should occupy it with my young cousin, 


142 


The Romance of an Old House. 


as it was a large room. But I refused to leave my room, 
before the window of which grew the linden-tree, and I 
did not want to have a view of the castle. * And as I began 
to cry, mother let me have my way, and Cousin Wieschen’s 
bed was carried into the large room : that pleased me very 
well. 

“Toward evening of the same day I went into the 
garden with my sewing, and seated myself in the beech 
arbor. No one was there : a deaf old woman was weed- 
ing the beds of young beets and onions, far behind ; but I 
laid my work in my lap, and, absorbed in my thoughts, I 
forgot to make the black crape bonnet which my mother 
wished to wear to church next day in honor of her sister- 
in-law. 

“ It had been a warm day, the gnats danced in the rays 
of the setting sun, and the pale young moon already soared 
in the heavens. From the forest came a pungent odor of 
pine, and on the other side of the hedge a woman was 
singing an old song with a monotonous melody. 

“ Twilight softly advanced, and finally it became quiet 
around me. Then I plainly heard my name called 
through the silence of the evening : ‘ Christel ! Christel ! ’ 
not loudly, but yet not softly, and it sounded like Con- 
rad’s voice, so that I started in alarm, and thought it was a 
ghost, and shuddered for fear that some misfortune had be- 
fallen him. I listened with all my senses on the alert, and 
heard once more : ‘ Christel, Christel ; little sister, open the 
gate ! ’ I hurried out of the arbor, and there he stood be- 
fore the gate leading out to the high-road, and his face 
was as pale as that of a corpse. 

“ ‘ I cannot jump over as I used to,’ said he. And now, 
for the first time, I noticed the white cloth bound over his 
forehead, and I hurried to open the gate, and drew him 
into the garden. 


The Romance of an Old House. 


M3 


“ ‘ Conrad, what have you done ? Where do you come 
from ? * 

“ But he was so weak that he could scarcely stand, and 
leaned heavily upon me as I led him to the arbor. After 
he had rested for a little while, he asked for wine, but I 
was not to tell them in the house that he was here until 
he had told me all. I came back with a cupful for him 
without having been seen, and when he had drunk it his 
face became hot and glowing, yet he shook as though 
with a chill, so that I said imploringly : 
u ‘ Conrad, come and lie down ; you are ill.’ 

“ He confessed, hesitatingly, that he had been wounded 
in a duel, and, as though his thoughts wandered, he laid 
his hand frequently upon his forehead, and said he felt 
sick — sick unto death. But father must never hear of it, 
so he would wait here until it grew quite dark. Then I 
seated myself beside him in great terror, and laid my hand 
on his forehead ; it burned like fire, and his head sank 
heavily upon my shoulder. And thus we sat until gradu- 
ally the stars came out, and my mother’s voice rang out 
through the quiet garden : 

“ * Christiana, are you dreaming again ? ’ 

“ ‘ Come ! ’ I said to him. And with a faint groan he 
rose and staggered to the house. We came up the steps 
unnoticed, and, as no bed was in readiness for him, I 
took him to my own little room, and there he sank upon 
the bed, while his limbs shook as though with cold. Then 
I hurried to mother and told her. She grew white to the 
lips, and ordered me to stay with father. And she hur- 
ried out, and while I sat by father’s sick-bed and talked to 
him, my thoughts were up-stairs, with Conrad — my darling 
brother, whom I yet could no longer think of as a brother. 

“ Then I heard the house-door open softly, and when I 
went' to the window, and gazed out, I saw our maid run- 


144 


The Romance of an Old House. 


ning across the square to the house of the court physi- 
cian, and soon she came back with him. My father said, 
vexedly, that there was a great running to and fro for Sat- 
urday evening, and that it was not proper in a clergyman’s 
house, and told me to go and see what it was all about. 

“ I hurried out of the room and ran breathlessly up-stairs. 
Then I heard the doctor say : 

“ ‘ Madam, he is very ill, but say nothing about it to 
your husband ; he must be spared all irritation.’ 

“ My mother began to lament that her cousin was not 
home, and who was there to take care of him, since she 
could not leave father ? 

“ Then I came softly in and said that I would take care 
of him, and seated myself beside his bed. He lay there, 
his cheeks flushed with fever, his blue eyes shining 
strangely, and he talked continually. Now he quarrelled 
with some one, and abused him — then he cried out : 

“ ‘ My mother, mother ! I do not want her ; leave me 
my dear old mother. It is not true, what you tell me ! ’ 
And then he began to sing a college song. 

“ I stared down at him in horror. 

“ ‘ Conrad,’ I whispered ; 1 darling brother.’ 

“ Then he was quiet for a moment. 

“ ‘ Christel, Christel, my little blonde sister, you have 
become so dainty and pretty. Ah, if you knew what has 
befallen me, how they mocked and pained me, those men. 

Can I help it that my mother ’ He laughed bitterly. 

‘ But, my boy, you have fared badly, worse than I. One, 
two, three, attack ! ’ And he sat up in bed wildly, and it 
was only owing to his aching head that he sank back upon 
the pillows again with a groan. 

“ All that man could do for him was done ; the doctor 
came again twice that night, and told me how to put the 
cooling cloths on his head, and give him the sour drink. 


The Romance of an Old House. 


*45 


And toward morning he gradually became calmer, and 
fell asleep. Then my head also sank back against the 
back of the chair, and I fell asleep, but started up in the 
gray dawn, for the room was deathly still. I could scarcely 
hear him breathing, but as I bent over him he groaned, as 
faintly as though he were in great pain. 

“ ‘ Conrad,’ said I, ‘ are you suffering much ? ’ 

“ ‘ It burns,’ said he ; ‘ my head burns like the flames of 
hell, but my heart pains even worse.’ 

“ And as he opened his eyes I saw that he was conscious, 
and knelt down beside his bed. 

“ ‘Conrad,’ said I, ‘ what makes your heart so heavy ? ’ 

“ He threw his arm around my neck, and drew my face 
down to his. 

“ ‘ Christiana,’ he whispered, ‘ we have always loved each 
other dearly: help me to bear up; help me not to succumb 
to the struggles and unrest of my heart. Stay with me, 
Christel ; you are good and kind, and I do not know what 
will become of me.’ 

‘“You will yet be happy, Conrad,’ said I, consolingly ; 
‘ you will get well, and will live here with us in peace and 
love as in the old times when we were children. Do not 
despair, Conrad ; think of the proverb over our door, 
which you once translated into German for me : “ If God 
is with me, who can be against me ? ” ’ 

“ ‘ Do you think so ? ’ said he scornfully. 

“ ‘ Conrad ! ’ I cried, ‘ God forgive you your sinful 
words.’ 

“ He drew away his arm and turned his head away 
from me, so that his face was toward the wall. 

“‘I see very well that no one can understand me, not 
even you — how should you ? ’ said he bitterly. And he 
would say nothing more, however I pleaded, and refused 
to eat or drink ; but his breath came quicker, and toward 
io 


146 


The Romance of an Old House. 


evening he became delirious again. But the doctor said 
he would become even more violent, and also that there 
was little hope if the fever did not soon subside. 

“ There was great mourning in our house, and Cousin 
Wieschen, who returned at dusk with my young cousin, 
wrung her hands and moaned that he would die, for she 
saw the death-bird as she drove through the castle park. 
But father learned of it, for Cousin Wieschen told him, 
and said that he lay quite still and did not say a word. I 
felt sorrowful and oppressed, and nevertheless my heart 
had become peaceful, and when they wished to send me 
away from his bedside I refused violently — it seemed to me 
that I belonged to him for all eternity, and that I must 
never leave him. 

“ The fever increased steadily. Cousin Wieschen watched 
beside the sick-bed with true anxiety, and I thought of 
Princess Liselotte, and wondered whether she would not 
feel for him who suffered so. But no one was at home at 
the castle to think of him, only from the tower floated the 
red and white banner, the silent sign of rejoicing ; for His 
Serene Highness had at last yielded to the petitions of his 
people, and had chosen a wife for himself, and Princess 
Liselotte had gone with him to the betrothal, and many 
entertainments and festivities detained them at the court 
of his future wife’s father, who was a French duke, and 
closely related to the reigning family. 

“ And in the dark sick-room lay one who — I did not 
dare even to think of it, and glanced shyly at the face 
glowing with fever as it rested upon the pillows. Just 
then he started up ; he sat upright in bed, and stretched 
out his hand as though some one stood at the foot of the 
bed, and cried in a loud voice which went to my heart : 

“ ‘ I swear it to you by my wounds, by all that is holy to 
me on earth, by my mother’s honor— — ’ 



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The Romance of an Old House. 


149 


“ Then his eager face changed, and in a cutting tone he 
cried : 

“ ‘ I have no mother ! What do you want ? Go ! I 
will revenge myself. Oh, my blighted life ! Would that 
I were dead ! ’ 

“ I grasped his hand, but Cousin Wieschen stared in 
horror at the boy, now lying there exhausted. 

“ * The sins of the father — ’ she began, and dried his 
damp forehead, and listened to his faint, hurried whisper- 
ing, which I did not understand, and which rose again to 
a delirious scream, echoing fearfully through the quiet 
room. Cousin Wieschen opened a window, so that the cool 
air might blow into the close room ; the last rays of the 
setting sun filled it with a golden radiance, and a woman’s 
voice floated up to us, deep and full and sweet, so that I 
listened in wonder. 

“ Then cousin said that was father’s young niece, who 
seemed to mourn but little for her dead mother. And she 
leaned out of the window and called softly : 

“ ‘ Hedwig, stop singing ; you will disturb Conrad.’ 

“ Then the voice called : 

“ ‘ Oh, no, cousin ; quite the reverse. My dear mother 
always grew calmer the more I sang. ’ And she at once 
began again the old folk-song of the young cavalryman 
who has no home ; and Conrad became calmer, as though 
the sweet tones soothed his heated brain. But when she 
had finished he began to rave again, more violently than 
before. 

“ ‘ Let her go on singing, cousin,’ said I. But it was 
hard for me to ask this. What would not I have given to 
be able to sing like that now, so sweetly and so beautifully ? 
I had never known my aunt : my father and his sister were 
not congenial. Her husband was said to have been a wild 
fellow who understood all kinds of magic, never failed to 


The Romance of an Old House. 


150 


accomplish his purpose, and had killed many a poacher. 
Whether this were true I could not say, but my father had 
little love for him, because he scarcely opened his lips 
without an oath ; and as he had once violently reproved 
him for this, the ties between the brothers-in-law had been 
broken, and my aunt never sent a fine piece of venison or 
other game to our house again. Until the hour of her 
death, she seemed to have forgotten her brother. 

“ Cousin rose at my request, and peered down into the 
garden. 

“ ‘ Hedwig, Hedwig ! ’ she cried softly, but there was no 
sound. ‘ She has gone farther down in the garden,’ she 
said. ‘ Will you not look for her, Christel ? I am tired 
and my back aches ; you have young feet ; I will take your 
place here.’ 

“ I went down-stairs and looked down the dark paths, 
but did not find her. I was about to go back to the house, 
thinking she had gone in, when I discovered her in the lin- 
den under my window ; she had climbed up to the lowest 
branch from the bench underneath, and there she sat amid 
the green leaves, while the sunlight played on her brown 
hair and charmed golden lights from it. Her arms were 
folded ; the slipper had fallen from one of her feet, and lay 
on the ground, as*small as a child’s. 

“ ‘ Hedwig ! ’ I called softly ; then she looked down, and 
when she saw me, she slipped down from her airy perch 
and stood before me. A wonderfully dainty figure, grace- 
ful as the deer in our woods, and her light brown eyes, 
under their long dark lashes, as large and shy as theirs ! 
Her mouth had a gloomy look, which told of solitude and 
silent self-will. But the delicate nostrils quivered as did 
Conrad’s sometimes, and Cousin Wieschen had told me 
that this was a sign of violent passions and a sensitive 
nature. 


The Romance of an Old House. 


* 5 * 


“I held out my hand : ‘ How do you do, Hedwig ? You 
come to our house at a sad time ; do not be vexed if I can- 
not be with you as much as hospitality demands. It will 
be different after a time, I hope. But I have come to 
ask you to sing another song, for it does Conrad good.’ 

“ She had lowered her eyes, and without those bright 
stars her face seemed almost plain. But she was ready to 
follow me at once, and followed me up the stairs so softly 
that twice I looked around thinking that she was no longer 
behind me. And so she went up to Conrad’s bed and 
bent over him, and then she seated herself in my place and 
began to sing softly ; and Conrad lay still, and Cousin 
Wieschen fell asleep in the arm-chair by the window. I 
had seated myself upon the chest which held Princess 
Liselotte’s kerchief, and stared before me in the twilight, 
my eyes burning, and listened to the song. A gloomy, 
angry mood came over me, and I felt as though I must 
push the girl away from the bed, and send her away from 
the house so that she would never return. 

“ And she sang on calmly and softly, sadly and sweetly, 
the song of a hunter who lay buried in the forest — of Knight 
Ewald, and his Lina, who died of grief when he rode away 
and left her. Sometimes a bright note rang out, as sun- 
light pierces the dark fir branches, burthen the song be- 
came sad and mournful again. I knew all the songs ; they 
were sung all over our part of the country, yet that day 
they sent burning tears to my eyes. 

“ Conrad lay on his bed for weeks ; sometimes conscious, 
but chiefly in a dull stupor. Hedwig sat beside his bed 
for hours, patiently and unweariedly, and the mere sound 
of her voice seemed to calm him. And outside, the trees 
gradually took on their autumn tints, and gay life had 
returned to the castle : the sound of hunting horns and 
the baying of dogs came even to our quiet house ; but 


r 5 2 


The Romance of an Old House. 


Princess Liselotte looked more lovely than ever on her 
bright brown horse when she rode into the forest, the 
foreign cavaliers, in their red hunting-coats, at her side. 

“Whether her blue eyes, looking out so merrily from 
beneath her feather-trimmed hat, ever glanced toward our 
house, whether she suspected that he was ill, I do not 
know, for I turned from the window as she passed, and 
went to Conrad’s quiet little room, where no sound from 
outside penetrated. But I must now often be with father : 
he was preparing a wedding address for His Highness — 
and as it was hard for him to write, I sat beside his chair 
and he dictated the words to me. 

“ Those were hard hours, for my heart was up-stairs ; 
and when Conrad raved loudly, I laid down my pen and 
sprang to the door. Then father, vexed at being dis- 
turbed, would say crossly : ‘ Why are you so worried ? Is 
not Hedwig with him, and do not your mother and cousin 
go in and out to give him his medicine ? ’ And I would 
bow my head in hot, bitter shame, and yet I could not 
overcome my anxiety. 

“ Gradually he grew better, and mother fitted up another 
room for him — larger and more comfortable, and the gar- 
dener carried him in there, for he was too weak to walk. 
A chest of books had come from Helmstadt, and I was 
told to unpack it and place them on the table beside his 
bed, and he smiled for the first time when he saw them. 

“ Hedwig and I could never become intimate ; she was 
of a shy, indolent nature — was fond neither of spinning nor 
housekeeping ; and sometimes, when on warm autumn days 
the golden sunlight rested on the crimson and yellow 
leaves of the forest, she disappeared for hours, and only 
came home at evening, while a yellow leaf or moss 
caught in her hair betrayed that she had been lying under 
a tree in the forest dreaming. Sometimes her shyness left 


The Romance of an Old House. 


*53 


her, and on long, rainy October evenings, when we sat in 
Conrad’s room, the lamp not yet lighted, and only the fire 
shedding a flickering light in the room, she would tell 
us old, long-forgotten stories of war times, when Tilly 
marched over the Harz Mountains ; how he lived up 
in the mountains, and how the forester in Harzgerode 
saved himself by shooting enchanted guns blindly out 
of the window, and that each shot killed an enemy. 
But the balls were enchanted and never missed their 
aim ; and when they were moulded, some sawdust must 
be taken from the heart of an oak that had been 
struck by lightning, and it must be at midnight in one of 
the twelve nights between Christmas and the night of the 
Three Kings. She told this in such an animated way, 
and could change her voice so suddenly, that one almost 
fancied he heard the cry of a terrified woman, the groan 
of some man hit by one of the magic balls, or the broken- 
hearted sobs of a girl taking leave of her lover about to 
go to battle. She would interweave a song with her tale — 
sad, as she preferred, and as seemed best suited to the 
young lips under the shy eyes — and she made charming 
gestures as she talked. But Conrad listened no less rev- 
erently than I, and once when Walter, who had come to 
inquire after his brother’s health, laughed loudly at magic 
balls and such nonsense, he cried violently : ‘ Let her go 
on with her story, Walter, and be glad that you need no 
magic balls, but can hit your mark without them.’ 

“ Father and mother were less charmed with the new 
inmate of our house, and father said her head was full of 
romance and nonsense, and she would never become a 
sensible woman. But she cared little that she was blamed : 
she stood patiently with bowed head, her curly brown 
hair shading her forehead in soft waves, and listened 
indifferently to the longest lecture ; for a while she would 


] 54 


The Romance of an Old House. 


sit at the spinning-wheel, or help the maid in the kitchen, 
but soon she was her old self again. 

“ It was toward the end of October that Conrad walked 
across his room for the first time, and paused at the win- 
dow. 

44 4 Oh, what are they building over there ? ’ he asked, 
and pointed to a strange-looking building which rose op- 
posite just where the slope of the castle hill began. 

“ We were standing side by side, and I told him that I 
did not know. I had really not had sufficient curiosity to 
ask, in my anxiety about him. 

“ 4 What will you give me, Conrad, if I tell you ? ’ asked 
Hedwig, jokingly, dropping her needle. 

44 He turned with a smile. 4 What do you want, Hedwig ? ’ 
he asked, teasingly. 

44 4 1 should like to know what little book that is in which 
you read so eagerly. See, it is no clerical book, for the 
letters are not like ours.’ And she pointed to an open 
book in his hand. 

“ He flushed crimson. ‘ One piece of information for 
another,’ said he, jokingly. 4 What are they building over 
there ? ’ 

“ 4 What are you reading here ? ’ she laughed. And so a 
merry quarrel ensued between them, as neither would be- 
tray the secret first. Then he yielded. 

“ 4 A Greek poet’s comedies,’ said he. Then she began 
to laugh, her silvery laugh which echoed from the walls, 
and Cousin Wieschen opened the door to see what had 
happened. 

See, Conrad, what a strange coincidence ! They are 
building a house over there in which the Greek poet’s 
comedies are to be acted.’ 

“ Conrad did not join in her laugh ; he turned to the 
window again, and gazed out at the workmen who were 


The Romance of an Old House. 


T 55 


lifting a block of marble from the wagon which had brought 
it from Riibeland. The room had grown quiet. Hedwig, 
too, was silent. 

Who told you that, Hedwig ? ’ asked Conrad, finally. 

“ ‘ The Prince’s valet’s wife,’ said she, and her tongue 
ran like a mill wheel. ‘ I can tell you all about it, as she 
told it to me, for I was with her an hour yesterday evening. 
You see, our Prince’s future wife comes from a gay French 
court. There they often act comedies, and the young 
princess has no amusement of which she is more fond. 
She calls it a high art to be able to imitate people as though 
they were living and real. The Prince is building this house 
in her honor, and he has engaged a company of actors for 
a large sum. The woman said that he had even sent his 
valet to Dresden, where the best actors were trained, and 
he had summoned an architect from there. You know the 
Prince of Saxony built a theatre, years ago, after the same 
pattern by which they are building this ; it will be magnifi- 
cent.’ 

“ Conrad made no reply : he began to walk up and 
down the room in deep thought. After a long pause, he 
asked : 

“ ‘ You have never seen a comedy, nor you, Christel ; so 
you do not know how one speaks and declaims in such a 
piece. If you like, come up-stairs this evening, and I will 
read one aloud to you.’ 

“ 1 Will father be willing ? ’ I asked. 

“ He stared at me ; it seemed to me that his eyes 
flashed angrily. ‘ If you are afraid, never mind,’ said he, 
calmly, and turned his back upon me. 

“ Then I went after him. ‘ Forgive me, Conrad ; I will 
come.’ 

“ And I did. come. Hedwig was upstairs before our 
cousin Wieschen had put red-cheeked apples on the table, 


The Romance of an Old House. 


r 5 6 


and lighted the lamp after well trimming it, and so we 
then sat around the table by the stove, cosey and warm, 
although outside a cold wind was tearing the leaves from 
the trees. 

“ ‘ This was written by an Englishman — Shakespeare,’ 
began Conrad. ‘ A strange love-story ; none could be 
more beautiful. “ Romeo and Juliet,” translated into Ger- 
man by His Highness, the Landgrave George II. of Hesse 
Darmstadt.’ 

“ He laid the book down, and with sparkling eyes 
told what enemies the two families had been, and how the 
hero and heroine had chanced to meet at a ball, and had 
immediately fallen in love with each other. Then he 
read aloud : it was like music, as though the words had 
wings, or like the song of nightingales, when Juliet said 
to her lover : 

‘ My bounty is as boundless as the sea, 

My love as deep ; the more I give to thee 
The more I have, for both are infinite. 

All my fortunes at thy feet I’ll lay, 

And follow thee, my lord, throughout the world.' 

“ Never have words so thrilled me. I listened as though 
under a spell, and scarcely ventured to draw a breath. 
And yet I felt that the blood rushed hotly to my cheeks, 
and lowered my eyes : was it not a dishonorable, unchaste 
girl who spoke thus ? Were not the words of Holy Scrip- 
ture which my mother had written in the Bible, her first 
present to father, far more beautiful : ‘ Whither thou 
goest, I will go ; where thou lodgest, I will lodge ; thy 
people shall be my people, and thy God my God ’ ? 

“Was not that much more beautiful in its simplicity 
than this other ? And I could not imagine myself so car- 
ried away, and thought of Princess Liselotte, and the song 


The Romance of an Old House. 


i57 


of the nightingale the evening that Cousin Wieschen told 
me her story. 

“ I no longer followed Conrad’s words, and became 
lost in thought. Only when he paused I started up, and 
saw Hedwig’s pale face, from which her great eyes stared 
enthusiastically at him, and saw that his eyes met hers as 
though in silent question and answer. 

“ ‘ Do you understand how beautiful the language is ? ’ 
asked Conrad at length. 

“ Then Hedwig sprang up, her cheeks were flushed 
crimson, and she pressed her hand to her heart. She 
tried to speak, stood still a moment, then sat down again 
without a word. 

“ ‘ And you, Christel ? ’ he asked, turning his eager face 
to me. ‘ Has it your approval, little sister ? ’ 

“ I do not know why I stretched out my hands with 
such a gesture of dissent, and said harshly : 

“ ‘ No, Conrad ; it oppresses and frightens me.’ 

“ ‘ Well, then, go,’ he cried, springing up, ‘ read the cate- 
chism with Cousin Wieschen, and study your cook-book ; it 
may suit you better.’ 

“ Then I saw that he was very angry, and tried to 
throw my arms around his neck ; but he repulsed me, and 
began to pace up and down the room like the deer whom 
they kept captive in the castle park — up and down, up 
and down, as though he were in a cage, which he would 
fain burst. Hedwig had left the room. 

“ Suddenly he paused. 

“ It is time for me to speak to father, Christel ; I can 
never stay here long : the narrow house seems like a prison 
to me, and the walls seem pressing upon me. I must go 
out into the world to work, or else ’ 

“ ‘Conrad,’ I said in alarm, ‘you have left your bed for 
the first time to-day, and your wound is scarcely healed.’ 


The Romance of an Old House. 


* 5 8 


“ ‘ It will not get better here,’ he replied. ‘ I only wish 
it were over, for father will not let me go without a sharp 
examination as to how I received this wound. And what 
I have to tell him will sadden him. It would be best for 
me to go without saying good-by, Christel.’ 

“ Then suddenly the night when he had wished to go 
away secretly and I had begged him to stay, and he had 
fulfilled my request, came to my mind : at that time I was 
still a child, and pleaded with my brother; to-day he was 
my brother no longer. A feeling of intense shame kept 
me from throwing my arms around his neck and pleading : 

‘ Stay with me, Conrad. You are still ill : let me first 
cure you. Do not leave me to pine here in anxiety for you.’ 

“ So I was silent. And as he began once more : ‘ It 
must be, Christel ; it must be ! ’ and stood before me and 
seized my hands, I merely said : 

“ ‘ You must know what is best for you to do, Conrad.’ 

“‘Christel,’ he cried, and drew me to him, ‘you think I 
am ungrateful and wicked, and yet I am trying to do my 
duty — you cannot imagine what a struggle is going on 
in my mind.’ 

“ I was silent, for to hear this again pained me. 

“ ‘ How could you know ? ’ he continued. ‘ If you had 
but a suspicion of what I have suffered for years, Christel, 
since the time when father told me that I was but a stranger 
among you, with neither father nor mother, you would 
have pity on me. Do not betray me. I shall go away to- 
morrow, perhaps to-day ; I cannot speak to father, for it 
never ends well.’ 

“ ‘ And where are you going, Conrad ? ’ 

“ He laughed bitterly. 

“ ‘ Where ? Oh, to Helmstadt ; back to my books ; 
only away from here. I will pass my examination, as I 
promised father. And then ’ 


The Romance of an Old House. 


i59 


“ ‘ And then ? ’ I repeated. 1 And then, Conrad ? ’ 

“ He was silent. 

“ * Do not ask, Christel,’ said he at length. 

“ It seemed to me that the warm blood in my veins 
turned to ice. 

“ ‘ Conrad ! * I cried, ‘ you will not come back again, if 
you go ! ’ And they were gone, my shame and pride. 

“ ‘ Conrad ! ’ I implored, grasping his shoulder, ‘ tell me 
that you will come back ! Tell me that you will not leave 
those who have loved you as their own child. Are we 
nothing to you ? Can you blot out all memory of the 
house which has been your home ; of the beautiful, happy 
times you have passed with us ? ’ 

“ He hastily drew back a step, but did not answer. 
There was a long silence, and I thought I could hear my 
own heart-beats. The house was deathly still ; only the 
lamp sputtered in the room, and then there was a light 
step outside, a hand felt softly along the wood-work of the 
door, as though seeking the knob. But Conrad suddenly 
turned, and his pale face flushed crimson. 

“ ‘ I will come, Christel,’ he whispered. 

“ ‘ My heart fairly leaped for joy, and my hands grasped 
his eagerly ; but as I turned, Hedwig stood in the door- 
way, and the heavy dark wood-work seemed made to 
frame her charming self like a picture. 

“ ‘ I will come,’ said Conrad, once more. ‘ How can 
you doubt it ? ’ 

“ Now I knew that he would come, and yet — my joy 
was gone. 

“ It was early the next morning when I awoke, and as I 
went to the window and looked out into the garden, I saw, 
upon the white frost covering the paths, fine and small 
footprints, yet not those of a woman’s foot. I hurried 
into my clothes and knocked at Conrad’s door. Nothing 


i6o 


The Ro?nance of an Old House . 


moved inside, and when I entered the room, in the 
gray dawn of the autumn day, I found it empty, 
and saw only a letter for father on the table by the 
bed ; a note lay beside it, but my eyes were dimmed 
with hot tears. When I could at length see to read, I 
found it was a greeting to me and thanks for my care of 
him, and underneath, with three lines drawn below to 
emphasize it, was written : 

Farewell ; do not be worried. Your faithful brother, 

‘ Conrad.’ 

“ Father scolded when he learned of Conrad’s flight, and 
yet I saw that he was not angry. ‘ It is easy to pardon a 
young man for omitting a convenance in his zeal for learn- 
ing,’ he said, in answer to mother’s complaints. ‘It may 
not have been easy for him to give an explanation of his 
escapade ; in that case, it is better that he went,’ he 
added, and a passing smile lit up his face as he recalled 
his own youth. He had once fought a duel, and had been 
severely lectured by his father for it, as he should have 
felt it his duty to lecture Conrad had they discussed the 
affair together. 

“ So all was well until Conrad wrote. He had arrived 
at his destination very tired but safely, he wrote, and he 
had begun eagerly to make up what he had lost by 
his illness. He wished us all a happy Christmas, as he 
hoped to have, for he had been invited to pass the Christ- 
mas holidays in Dresden with a friend of a distinguished 
family of Saxon nobility ; he was especially pleased, as he 
had been told that he would have a chance to see the 
comedies produced at court, for which German and Eng- 
lish actors had been engaged, as well as several operas. 

“ We were all in father’s room when he received this 
letter. Hedwig stood at the window and gazed out at the 


The Romance of an Old House. 


161 


men who were working on the little theatre in the last rays 
of the sun ; but mother, Cousin Wieschen, and I had 
gathered around father, anxious to know how Conrad 
was. 

“ That was a wretched hour. Father sent every one 
but me from the room ; I must seat myself preparatory to 
writing, but held the pen in my trembling hand for a long 
time before he began to dictate. His left hand lay clinched 
on the table, and his forehead wore an angry frown. 

“ ‘ Now, then,’ he said at length. 

“ ‘ In writing this to you, Conrad, my heart is heavy, for 
I know that you are on a path which leads you far from 
the only one it is your duty to pursue. With the power 
which was given me over you, I forbid you to turn your 
eyes upon such frivolities as play-acting. It brings evil to 
every human soul ; it is a temptation of the devil, and 
those who now rejoice in it will one day deeply regret it. 
But for you it is doubly unworthy to direct your eyes upon 
it, and it would be better that you were blind than that 
you should witness such foolishness. 

“ ‘I rather hope that, when you stand in your priestly 
garb in the chancel here, you will represent in a proper 
manner to our Prince that he will do well to break off 
from such unchristian doings, and will repeat to him the 
seventh chapter of Corinthians : “ For the fashion of this 
world passeth away.” How Eve is at the root of this 
matter, too, for, as I hear, the Frenchwoman has spurred 
on her future husband to imitate other frivolous courts ! 

“ ‘ I have now told you what I wish, and desire that you 
act as the obedient son of your always faithful father, 

“ ‘ Sebastian Ehrentraut, 

“ ‘ Court Chaplain .’ 

“ ‘ Falkerode, M., December, 1669.’ 


162 


The Romance of an Old House. 


“ I would gladly have added a few loving words, but 
did not know how to do it, for father read the letter over 
once more. When he gave it back to me to fold and seal, 
however, I hastily wrote : 

“ ‘ A thousand greetings, Conrad, and do not worry.’ 

“But afterward, as I passed through the sitting-room 
on my way to the kitchen, Cousin Wieschen beckoned to 
me. She was standing by the table making Christmas cakes. 
* What did I tell you, Christel ? ’ she whispered, cutting 
out the dough. ‘ The bird sings as his nature demands, and 
if another song is whistled to him each day, he will yet 
keep to his own.’ 

“ ‘ I wish he were home,’ I sighed. 

“ The old woman looked at me slyly : ‘ I believe it, I be- 
lieve it, my girl. Or do you think your cousin is blind ? 
You are as pale as wax, and you no longer laugh ; your 
heart palpitates, and you no longer sleep so well. Is it not 
so ? I. know very well what all that means. I will make 
you a tonic of red wine, iron nails, and elder-berry plucked 
before sunrise on Whitsunday. That will help you.’ 

“ ‘ Oh, cousin, what are you thinking of ? ’ said I, and 
yet felt the blood rush to my face. I hurried into 
mother’s room, and seated myself at my spinning-wheel. 
Mother’s hands were folded in her lap, and her eyes were 
red as though from weeping. But Hedwig sat at the win- 
dow, her delicate head outlined sharply against the bright 
background, and sang softly to herself as she spun, as 
was her habit : it seemed as though she longed for 
spring, for May breezes, for something sweet and un- 
speakably lovely, so that my heart beat more rapidly, and 
my foot paused on the treadle. I thought I heard the 
nightingales singing, and saw the young foliage of the 
linden-tree, and a pale face with two brilliant blue eyes, 
and the words rang in my ears : ‘ Stay with me, Christel, 


The Romance of an Old House. 


163 


so that I do not succumb to the struggles and unrest of 
my heart : we have always loved each other dearly ! ’ 

“ Many stars flash up in the sky, 

Many leaves wave upon the tree, 

Many flowers grow in the field near by, 

Many times each hour do I think of thee,” 

sang Hedwig — oh, was it not so ? 

“ I started up. 

“ ‘ What are you thinking of, child ? Are you sleeping 
in broad daylight ? ’ asked mother pleasantly. But as 
I looked at Hedwig, her pale face flushed crimson. We 
stared each other in the eyes, and she asked : 

“ ‘Why are you blushing so, Christiana ? ’ 

“ ‘ And you ? ’ I answered, for the sake of saying some- 
thing. ‘ Have you left a sweetheart behind you, up in the 
mountains ? ’ 

“ Then she threw her head back proudly. ‘ I could 
have had many a one, but a man who knows nothing 
save of shooting and dogs is not to my taste.’ 

“ But mother reproved her for speaking thus : ‘ Who 
tries to rise too high, usually hits the ceiling.’ 

“ Then she was silent and went on spinning ; but her 
young face was proud and defiant, and she made no 
answer when I spoke to her, and it was so for a long time. 
But out-doors the snowflakes danced merrily, and spring 
and happiness were far away. 

“ This was a severe winter ; we were fairly snowed in 
up here in the mountains, and many a quiet evening 
passed during which scarcely a word was spoken, and 
only the spinning-wheels hummed softly, and the storm 
rattled the window-blinds loudly. There was trouble 
everywhere — avalanches in the forests, the game starved, 
and in human homes there were sickness and grief. 


164 


The Romance of an Old House. 


“But when the first violets bloomed in April, His Serene 
Highness brought his young wife home. The wedding 
was solemnized at Dijon, in the distant country of France. 
Now a succession of festivities, to which many foreign 
princes had been invited, awaited the newly wedded pair. 
Hedwig knew of all this ; she seemed fairly bewitched by 
the old woman, the Prince’s valet’s wife, who had a room 
in the castle, and could tell of everything that was going 
on there. Her Argus eyes saw everything, and the court- 
iers were not very fond of her, since her sharp ears heard 
more than was meet. 

“ When the grand entry took place, Hedwig and I stood 
on the steps in front of our house. People from all 
the country round crowded on the large square ; many 
fine arches of green were erected, and each house was 
decorated, and from all the windows peered curious faces. 
From the castle tower floated the coat of arms of the 
young couple, and as the train approached cannons were 
discharged, so that the very mountains echoed. The sol- 
diers, in gala uniform, formed a hedge ; the princely ser- 
vants, in rich liveries — some mounted, some on foot — 
marched first ; then came the adjutants, and the chamber- 
lain in a coat almost covered with gold embroidery, and 
mounted on a richly caparisoned charger ; then the coach 
drawn by four horses, and in it the maids of honor, look- 
ing like rare Holland tulips, as Cousin Wieschen said. 
Many cavaliers rode after them, in great splendor. The 
spring sun had never gazed upon a more brilliant spec- 
tacle. 

“ Beside our Prince, in the gold satin cushioned coach, 
reclined a lovely, slender, dark woman, bowing on all 
sides ; her dark eyes shone happily, vying with the jewels 
lavishly adorning her silver-embroidered gown. I thought 
she would now look at the windows of our house, where 


The Romance of an Old House. 


i 6 5 


my father was posted with all the insignia of his office, 
which he had donned that day with great pain. She 
glanced at them, but she turned her head quickly, and at 
a sign from her husband she gazed at the theatre, upon 
whose pediment could now be read the proud inscription, 
‘ Apollini et Musis,’ and many could see how the young 
wife clapped her slender hands in delight. 

“ When I turned to look for my father he had left the 
window, and as I hurried to his room, he sat gloomily in 
his arm-chair, and would not answer me, question him as 
I might. So I went sadly out, and just then the carriage in 
which Princess Liselotte sat passed, and with the hurrahs 
of the people were mingled music and the discharge of 
cannon, and Hedwig stood behind the iron railing, which 
she clutched with both hands, and gazed delightedly after 
the procession winding up the castle hill. Her eyes 
stared out of her pale face, as though they longed to be 
amid such entrancing, strange splendor. 

“ She looked very lovely under the wreath of violets 
which she had placed on her head early that morning, 
standing and gazing at herself in the glass for hours, and 
many a strange cavalier in the procession glanced at her. 
And when mother noticed this, she said that we must go 
into the garden — it was not proper for respectable girls to 
stand on exhibition, since there was nothing more to see. 
Hedwig started as though awakened from a dream, but 
followed me into the garden without a word. Here it 
was quiet, and the bushes had put out their first young 
leaves ; only occasionally a faint sound of the rejoicings 
penetrated to our ears. 

“ Hedwig flew before me down the path leading to the 
arbor, her black gown floated about her dainty figure. I 
followed her slowly, and paused here and there before a 
flower bed, and before the one which had formerly be- 


i66 


The Romance of an Old House. 


longed to Conrad. Since then I had always tended it, 
and this year had sown his name in flower seeds, and to- 
day rejoiced to see that they had begun to sprout, and the 
name ‘ Conrad ’ was visible in tender green writing. I 
stooped to root up a weed, but as I entered the arbor 
I found Hedwig, her face buried in her hands ; the violet 
wreath lay on the ground, and she sobbed loudly and 
bitterly. 

“ ‘ What is the matter, Hedwig ? ’ I asked in alarm. 

“ She raised her face, and tears hung on her dark lashes. 

“ ‘ I have such a longing ! ’ she answered. 

“ ‘ For what, Hedwig ? ’ 

“ Then she rose and stretched out her arms as though 
she would fain fly up into the clear blue sky, far away 
from the small quiet garden, into unknown space. 

“ ‘ I do not know,’ said she then, and her eyes followed 
a bird soaring quickly on high, so that in a few minutes 
he became a mere point to our eyes. 

“ I let her alone, and did not tell mother that she sat in 
the arbor or in the forest for hours at a time, dreaming in 
broad daylight. But once when she was about to slip into 
the castle park, father saw her, and told her harshly that 
it was not proper for her to wander there alone — a girl be- 
longed in the house. But she sat by the window, and saw 
everything that went on. And there was much to see, for 
the court was maintained now in far more magnificence 
than formerly : many strange princes came and went, 
bringing troops of servants with them, who frequently 
gathered on the square before our house, and there was 
great feasting under the lindens in front of the castle, and 
up in the banquet-hall dancing and drinking, so that the 
nights were like a Walpurgis night. 

“ The company of actors, too, were quartered in our 
vicinity — all foreigners ; and many from distant Italy, 


The Romance of a7i Old House . 


167 


with their black eyes and hair and olive skins. They 
strolled past our house frequently, and at times a bold 
glance would fall upon our window when Hedwig sat 
there ; then she would smile charmingly and lean forward, 
so that I was ashamed and would no longer sit by the 
window. Soon mother forbade her to sit there with her 
sewing or spinning, and Cousin Wieschen kept a strict 
watch. 

“ But when, one day, His Highness invited father, and 
us as well, to witness a French play by a Mr. Moliere, my 
father became furious, and it was with difficulty, and only 
through mother’s gentle persuasion, that he could be 
brought to thank His Highness properly for his kindness, 
and say that he thought it unfitting his position as a clergy- 
man to be present, and with leave of His Highness he 
and his family would remain at home. He was angry 
for days, and closed the blinds of his window from which 
he could see the hated building. 

“ Such annoyances did not, however, trouble me much. 
I counted every hour until Conrad would return ; a 
gracious letter had come from His Highness saying that 
Conrad should deliver his first trial sermon on Whitsunday 
in the castle chapel. Princess Liselotte had sent her 
‘ godson ’ a gown of the costliest Brabant cloth, the col- 
lar of the finest linen — and this hung, carefully protected 
from dust, in his little room, and every day I went in, 
opened the window, and dusted. Then my heart was filled 
with the secret happiness of expectation, and often I sat there 
dreamily staring at the sunbeams creeping along the wall, 
and imagined how a man’s dark curly head would bend over 
the desk in grave study, and thought I could hear his deep 
voice say : ‘ All is well with me now, my darling little 
sister ! ’ 

“ Then I paused in my revery. ‘ Not sister ! ’ my heart 


i68 


The Romance of an Old House . 


cried, and I sprang up. ‘ No ! a sweeter, a thousand 
times sweeter name ! ’ And I thanked God that he was not 
my brother, and folded my hands in prayer for her who 
had given him life ; who had remained solitary, although 
she had a right to love— to the sacred love of a child. Poor 
Liselotte ! I could never again be angry with her, for his 
sake. 

“ And he came. Oh, do not ask me what our meeting 
was — that meeting of which I had dreamed for hours, in 
shy longing. Who can describe such an event ? I only 
know that I fastened a bunch of forget-me-nots in my 
brown frock, and a blue ribbon in my hair ; I only know 
that Cousin Wieschen saluted me with a laugh, and that in 
the evening I walked up and down in the garden, until 
finally, almost unconsciously, I opened the gate and wan- 
dered along the edge of the forest, down the road along 
which he must come. The sky was crimson with the 
sunset glow, the air was fragrant, and the breeze fanned 
my cheeks and whispered to the leaves. I seated myself 
under a tree at the edge of the road and looked for him : 
the birds flew home to their nests above me, and from 
the castle tower came the last tones of the bell ; then no 
sound all around me but the chirping of the crickets — 
calm peace of evening everywhere. 

“ Then a tall figure came around the corner of the for- 
est, a light knapsack on his back, a staff in his hand ; he 
walked along with as lofty and erect a bearing as any one 
ever had. ‘ Conrad ! ’ I tried to call to him, and yet could 
not ; I could only go to meet him, at first quickly, then 
my steps became more slowly, and then I paused : I felt 
strangely timid. But he had recognized me and quick- 
ened his pace ; now two hands clasped mine, and the voice 
that I had so often heard, waking and in dreams, said : 
‘ God bless you, Christiana.’ 



Bjf 

( 

1 , '“//;/*• T JuH 

mfolXrr** 

L j 







The Romance of a?i Old House. 


171 


“Yet I could not look at him, and he threw his arm 
around me and said jokingly : * Oh, did you come to meet 
me, and yet have not a word for me ? ’ 

“ Then I looked at him ; those were the same blue, 
earnest eyes, and the dear face, but it was pale, with lines 
telling of work and sorrow. 

“ 4 You are not strong yet, Conrad,’ said I ; ‘ but now you 
will rest with us. I hope you will be content here.’ 

, “ He pressed my hand : 4 God grant it ! ’ And we walked 
on together, and as he walked silently at my side I glanced 
at him occasionally, and thought that the world had never 
been so lovely as now in the fading sunset glow. He had 
come, what further care had I ? 

“ And days as lovely as the spring followed : gradually 
the furrows of anxiety left my father’s brow, and his face 
softened when he spoke of Conrad. My mother’s eyes 
followed him, and at times she glanced from him to me, 
and her grave lips parted in a fairly roguish smile. Con- 
rad sat up-stairs over his books, and prepared a sermon for 
Whitsunday. We saw but little of him ; he had chosen 
a room overlooking the garden, that he might be undis- 
turbed. Sometimes, when I walked down the garden path, 
he stood at the window gazing thoughtfully out at the 
waving green branches of the linden-tree ; sometimes I 
heard him walking up and down his room for hours. 

“ Once he came down into the garden when he saw me. 
‘ You look pale, Conrad ; you study too much,’ I said to 
him. 

“He shook his head. ‘ Not enough,’ he answered, and, 
sighing as though heavily oppressed, he added : 4 Am I 

not too young, Christiana, for such a responsible calling ? ’ 

“ 4 No, no, Conrad : it is not a question of age, but of 
ability to hold such an office, and that I know you have.’ 


172 


The Romance of an Old House. 


‘“Father thinks so too,’ said he, ‘and yet I doubt it.’ 

“ Then I laughed at him, but at heart I was worried 
about him, for he was often cross and irritable when yet 
no one had offended him. He avoided Hedwig in an al- 
most rude manner, and paid no more attention to her than 
to the gray cat when it passed him on the stairs : she was 
not vexed with him for this ; at most, she gave him a strange 
smile. But on Ascension Day, as we sat under the lin- 
den in the garden, and Hedwig sang as we worked, he 
closed his window so violently that one of the panes 
of glass broke ; but Hedwig acted as though she had 
noticed nothing, and went on singing, neither louder nor 
softer, and yet I thought it was more bewitchingly beauti- 
ful than before. 

“ * Hush, Hedwig,’ said I ; ‘it disturbs Conrad.’ Then 
she laughed her sweet, silvery laugh, and a chair was vio- 
lently pushed aside up-stairs : steps came down the stair- 
case, and Conrad passed close to us, without looking at 
us, and quickly as though he could not get away from us 
soon enough ; then the garden gate slammed, and all was 
still. 

“‘It is wrong,’ I said ; ‘you disturb him in his work, 
Hedwig. How can he write what will touch the hearts 
of his hearers, and lead them to God, when you are acting 
so foolishly down here ? ’ 

“ She did not answer, but rose and went farther into the 
garden ; and when, after a while, mother wanted her, she 
was nowhere to be found. 

“ At twilight Conrad came back, and I heard him go 
directly to father’s room. He remained there a long time, 
and supper, which Cousin Wieschen had carried out under 
the linden, became cold, and had to be carried away 
again. After a while, when it had grown darker, mother 
summoned me to father’s room. There was no light in 


The Romance of an Old House. 


173 


it, only the new moon shone through the window, and 
showed me father’s face, resting among the pillows of his 
arm-chair. 

“ ‘Christiana,’ said he, and his voice was milder than I 
had ever heard it before, ‘ come nearer me ; I have some- 
thing to tell you.’ 

“ I drew nearer and waited, but it seemed as though he 
would never find the right words. ‘ I mean, about Con- 
rad, child,’ he began, at length. ‘ I think you have al- 
ways loved him as dearly as a brother.’ 

“ ‘ Yes, father,’ I stammered. 

“ ‘ But now it is time to tell you that he belongs to our 
family as little as the stranger who passes the door. He 
is not my son, as he is not your own brother — ’ He was 
silent, and his eyes gazed at me in the twilight. 

“ As I did not answer, he asked : 

“ ‘ Did you know that, Christiana ? ’ 

“ ‘ Yes,’ said I, timidly and anxiously. 

“ ‘ Then, do you know who his parents are ?’ 

“ I silently bowed my head, uncertain what answer to 
make. 

“ * Where can you have learned this, since it is a 
secret ? ’ he continued. 1 1 hope it does not injure your 
opinion of him. He is a good fellow, Conrad, and well 
worthy of a good wife. I do not know whether it is true, 
as your mother thinks, that you look at each other differ- 
ently than do a brother and sister ?’ 

“ ‘ Father ! ’ I cried in terror. 

“ But he took my hand and drew me nearer, and I 
knelt before him in the utmost confusion. 

“ ‘ He was a dreamy, absent-minded boy,’ he continued, 
‘ but now he has become a serious man, who in a short 
time will devote his life to the service of God. He has 
already told me that his heart has turned to you, and he 


174 


The Romance of an Old House. 


thinks you are well suited to be the wife of a young 
pastor. He wishes an answer from you on Whitsunday, 
after his sermon. You must consider carefully whether 
you are willing to be his wife, to cling to him through all 
the vicissitudes of this life until death parts you. What 
does your young heart say to this, Christiana ? * 

“ It seemed to me that the gloomy room had become 
heaven, and a celestial glory seemed blinding my eyes. 

“ ‘ Yes, father, yes — a thousand times ! ’ I stammered. 

“ ‘ And is his dark origin no objection to you ? ’ 

“ ‘ No, oh no ; I will love him the more. I will love him 
more for all that he lacks.’ 

“ ‘ Then I will tell him, and do you go up into your room 
and pray to Him who fathoms each thought of our hearts.’ 

“ I staggered out of the room and went up-stairs, and in 
my room I fell upon my knees beside the bed, buried my 
face in the pillow, and in my gladness did not know what 
words to frame in thankfulness. It seemed hard to bear 
this happiness alone, and yet Conrad was near me in his 
room. Did he not suspect that I longed for him at this 
moment ? Hastily I pushed back the hair which had 
fallen over my forehead, and opened the window ; the cool 
night-air fanned my heated brow ; the garden lay dark and 
silent below me. Only from Conrad’s window light shone 
on the leaves, and in there a shadow wandered restlessly 
up and down. Was he thinking of me, and the answer I 
would give him ? Ah, did he not know that it would be 
yes — yes, for all eternity ? 

“ Then a nightingale began to sing softly in the linden ; 
it sounded sweet and melancholy. I leaned far out of the 
window. ‘ Conrad ! Conrad ! ’ came softly from my lips, 
and I paused in affright. But no one answered me, only 
the nightingale sang on, and I began to weep, yet knew 
not why. 


The Romance of an Old House l 


175 


“ And yet there was a strange feeling of oppression with 
all my happiness, like clouds over the sun. I often asked 
myself how he could pass me without a glance if he loved 
me. ‘ That is the way of studious gentlemen,’ Cousin 
Wieschen would tell me as a consolation, when I met him 
on the stairs with a face paler than it used to be, and so 
absorbed in thought that he did not notice me, although 
my dress touched him. ‘ That is the way of studious 
gentlemen. They do not pay much attention to what 
goes on around them. You must become accustomed, 
my lamb, never to disturb him, but to wait patiently until 
he chooses to speak to you. Another man would always 
have time to tease and pet you, but that is not fitting 
for a clergyman. Your father was the same. I always 
said it was no easy task to be the wife of a parson.’ 

“ I believed her, and yet would have changed places 
with no one in the world. 

“ Conrad continued absorbed in his books, so that I 
wondered how a sermon could possibly require so much 
time. Sometimes I heard him declaiming : his deep voice 
rang out melodiously — it seemed made for a clergyman — so 
that often I listened on the stairs, but could not under- 
stand the words ; and I sat sewing on a blue gown with a 
red-brown velvet ribbon on the edge, and when mother 
discovered me, she brought me two silver spangles fast- 
ened together with a little chain to hold the bodice to- 
gether on the breast. And she said, with a smile : ‘ These 
were on my wedding gown.’ 

“ But Hedwig had grown pale and silent since that 
afternoon when she sang under the linden : she seldom 
opened her mouth to speak, and there were dark circles 
around her eyes. When she looked at Conrad it seemed 
as though her face turned paler than ever, and her brown 
eyes flashed gloomily at him. Sometimes I felt her 


1 76 


The Romance of an Old House. 


eyes resting angrily upon me, and I grew frightened, as 
though a weight were pressing down upon me. ‘ I do not 
know what is the matter with her,’ said Cousin Wieschen. 

1 1 sometimes think she has gone crazy, she talks so fool- 
ishly in her sleep.’ 

“ She would stand by the window for hours, and idly 
watch the doings out in the square, or stare at the theatre. 

One evening, as I opened the door of her room sud- 
denly, she stood before her mirror, wonderful to see ; she 
turned and stretched her arm out imperiously at me, so 
that I left the door wide open in my surprise, and re- 
mained on the threshold. She had thrown a sheet over 
her as drapery, and a fine muslin kerchief was fastened 
as a veil to her head ; and so she stood, the sunlight 
shining on her brown hair and delicate arm, and hastily 
taking a step toward me, she cried : 

“ ‘ What will’st thou here ? Naught in thy speech pleases 
me, nor can it ever please me ; and mine, too, is distasteful 
to thee.’ 

“ ‘ Hedwig,’ I cried in horror, ‘you are raving.’ And 1 
seized her hand and shook it ; but she drew it away, and 
pushed me back. 

“ ‘ Pray go, then,’ said she bitterly, ‘and tell your father. 
I am willing for him to turn me out of the house ; then 
I will be free, and need not be walled up in this house, 
which is worse than a cloister.’ 

“ ‘ Do not be ungrateful,’ I cried, offended. ‘ What more 
liberty do you wish ? What is refused you here ? ’ 

“ ‘ Would you understand if I told you ? ’ she replied, 
smiling mockingly. ‘ Have you any idea that there is any- 
thing higher in this life than narrow, shut-in happiness ? 
That a woman’s heart can long for something more than 
a spinning-wheel, kitchen, and nursery ? Oh, pray go ; how 
can you understand it ? Does not your face always wear 


The Romance of an Old House. 


77 


a contented smile, so that one might really be envious, if it 
were worth while envying you the thin broth which is the 
intellectual nourishment of your life ? ’ 

“ I was silent, and could not answer ; but as I turned 
uncertainly, Conrad stood in the door, and stared past me 
at the slender girl in the strange raiment, with the sunlight 
shedding a golden glory over her. 

“ ‘ Conrad,’ I asked timidly, ‘ what is the matter with 

her ? She is raving ; pray speak -* 

“ Then his eyes slowly wandered from her to me, and 
stared at me from his pale face as though they were gazing 
at empty space, so cold and dead did they look. 

“ ‘ Conrad,’ I tried to cry, but my heart suddenly ached ; 
the word died on my lips, and he turned again to Hedwig. 

“ ‘ What was that you said a few moments ago ? ’ he 
asked gently, ‘ and where did you hear it ? ’ 

“ She had flushed crimson ; but, as though she felt that 
he would not judge her harshly, she drew nearer to him, 
seized his hand, and led him to the open window. 

“ ‘ There ! ’ she cried, pointing to the theatre ; ‘ and if it 
was a sin, may God forgive me, but I cannot believe that 
anything so noble and beautiful can be accursed.’ 

“ He made no reply, only gazed dreamily over at the 
white building. 

“ ‘ Whom did you see play Antigone ? ’ he then asked. 

“ Life seemed to return to the girl, an’d she raised her 
clasped hands in rapture. ‘ Whom ! ’ she cried. 1 Oh ! Con- 
rad, that you will never guess. But she was beautiful, 
sublimely beautiful, as she entered in her white gown, her 
face distorted with pain and grief. You know the court 
people played yesterday for their own amusement, and the 
old valet’s wife, whom I have often helped pass a weary 
hour, took me in on the sly with her, and I saw her from 
the darkest corner— Princess Liselotte, as Antigone -’ 


> 7 » 


The Romance of an Old House. 


“ ‘ Princess Liselotte ? ’ he asked, while my heart beat 
almost to bursting. 

“ ‘ Yes, Conrad ! Oh, would that you had been there ! ’ 
and she added, in a caressing, coaxing tone : 1 Are you 

angry with me ? Do you, too, say that it is sinful ? ’ 

“ Then he quickly turned away ; his face, so pale be- 
fore, had flushed, and he left the room without looking at 
me ; yet I stood, timid and anxious, close to the door. 
But Hedwig tore the kerchief from her head, threw it on 
the ground, and began to weep so that I feared she would 
be ill. I thought to make short work of it by going to 
father, and telling him that Hedwig had disobeyed his 
commands ; and I was angry with Conrad for not reprov- 
ing her, but thought that he had feared that he would 
become angry, since his was a violent temperament ; yet 
my heart was oppressed with doubt. 

“ As I went down-stairs, I met Conrad. 

“ ‘ Christiana,’ said he, ‘ are you going to father ? ’ It 
was the first word he had spoken to me since the day that 
he asked father for my hand. 

“ ‘ Yes,’ I replied, ‘ for I am angry that Hedwig does 
not obey him, since she lives in our house, and already 
has done things she should not.’ 

“ He said nothing, but looked at me. I do not know 
what was not expressed in this look : compassion, reproach, 
and entreaty — silent, sad entreaty. 

“ ‘ Well, go then, 1 said he at length, and quickly van- 
ished into his room. It seemed to me that he was angry 
with me. But as I entered father’s room, he said, vexedly : 
‘ Where have you been so long ? Have you forgotten that I 
wish to dictate to you the sermon for Conrad’s ordination ? ’ 

“ I hastily seated myself to write, and as I saw that he 
was impatient I refrained from angering him — was silent as 
to what I had heard, and wrote as he dictated : 


The Romance of an Old House. 


179 


“ ‘Jeremiah, first chapter, the sixth and seventh verses. 
“Ah, Lord God ! behold, I cannot speak : for I am a child. 

“ ‘ “ But the Lord said unto me, Say not, I am a child : 
for thou shalt go to all that I shall send thee, and whatso- 
ever I command thee thou shalt speak.” ’ 

“ I wrote, as father dictated, that Conrad was called by 
the will of God, young in years, to a high office ; that 
he must strive to lead a blameless life, and do his duty, 
for intelligence is the true gray hair, and a godly life the 
true age. And it closed thus : ‘ Therefore from this time 
forth, Conrad, called Ehrentraut, take the place of your old 
adopted father, the court chaplain, Sebastian Ehrentraut, 
since thou hast well studied, and in a proper manner, in 
Helmstadt, the word of God and the teachings of our 
Church, and hast promised and vowed that thou wilt not 
rest only upon these studies, but wilt fulfil the duties of 
thy office with faithfulness and zeal, and wilt now, after 
the examination, be ordained in accordance with the 
apostolic words.’ 

“ Then I had to read it aloud ; and as my father’s sub- 
stitute, a calm, mild old man, arrived just at this moment, 
he listened, and said : 

“ ‘ May the maid also write : “ So may God give him His 
blessing, that he may follow in his dear old father’s foot- 
steps, and be of like service to his Church.” ’ 

“ And when I had written this, father said : ‘ Carry it 
up-stairs to Conrad that he may read it, and ask him if he 
is satisfied with the sermon to be preached at his ordina- 
tion. He may come and tell me himself.’ 

“ I went to his room in embarrassment ; he probably 
did not hear my knock, but sat at his writing-desk among 
a pile of books and papers. He was not writing but read- 
ing, and his dark, curly hair had fallen over his forehead, 
so absorbed was he in his book. I went softly up to him, 


i8o 


The Romance of an Old House. 


and as I looked over his shoulder my eyes fell upon a book 
lying on the open Bible, and I read : 1 Antigone, a Greek 

Play, translated into German by ’ I could not read 

the name, so startled was I. Quietly I laid the ordination 
sermon on the desk and went away. Conrad did not move, 
and as I closed the door he still sat in the same position, 
staring at the book. 

“ Everything went on as usual in the house, for I had 
not the courage to complain of Hedwig’s disobedience, 
nor did I wish to distress my parents by telling them that 
Conrad knew of it. But that could not prevent me from 
becoming sad, and I sighed deeply and wished for Whitsun- 
day, thinking that when once I was Conrad’s betrothed 
all would be different ; thinking that he was worried more 
than was needful over his first sermon and the grave 
responsibilities awaiting him. 

“ When the last week before Whitsunday began, a grand 
cleaning took place in our house, and Cousin Wieschen 
was in a bad temper, as she always was when there was 
much work on hand, and rattled her bunch of keys louder 
than ever — now she was in the attic, now her voice came 
from the cellar. ‘ She has the devil of cleaning in her,’ 
said my father, yet he was not angry, for he said teasingly 
to me that everything must be spotlessly clean for such 
an important festival as was expected — not only our minds 
but everything about us. And so the house was turned 
upside down, the rooms shone with spotlessness, and cellar 
and storeroom were well stocked, as for the blessed Christ- 
mas time ; and mother was very busy, laying in even more 
supplies, for many of our relatives were expected to 
visit us. 

“ Many of my experiences have become vague in my 
recollection, but I remember one event with the utmost 








The Romance of an Old House. 


183 


mournful distinctness, and have not forgotten the slightest 
detail of that hour which made me miserable for a long 
time. How often I still dream of it ; how often the present 
vanishes and the past enthralls me, so that I live that tor- 
menting hour over again. Then the solitary room becomes 
peopled, the clock again ticks loudly and plainly in the 
stillness, then the linden sways in the breeze as at that 
time, and the words which broke my heart ring in my ears, 
and the Whitsun bells also, which ushered in the bitterest 
day of my life. All the pain I felt then seizes upon me, 
drives me out of my room down into the garden, and from 
there along the path to the woods, and it is long before I 
can return home calm again. 

“ Two days before Whitsunday, when the flowers were 
in blossom and the air was filled with fragrance, I sat with 
Hedwig in the garden. We were winding wreaths to adorn 
the chancel where Conrad was to stand for the first time. 
Her hands trembled as they fastened the flowers and 
greens together, her movements were hurried, and finally 
she asked : 

“ ‘ Do you not think it would be hard, Christiana, to for- 
give any one who wronged you bitterly ? ’ 

“ She looked at me with strange emotion, and under her 
tight brown cotton gown her bosom heaved convulsively. 
And as I stared at her in astonishment, she averted her 
eyes and turned over the flowers, yet selected none. 

‘“I do not know, Hedwig,’ I replied, ‘ for as yet no one 
has wronged me ; but if it happened, I would always try to 
think of the person with mildness.’ 

“ She was silent, and continued turning over the flowers. 
I thought her eyes had grown moist, and drew closer to 
her. 

“ ‘ Why do you ask such questions, Hedwig, and what 
makes you sad ? ’ I asked, and deep pity for her overcame 


184 


The Romance of an Old House. 


me, for she was a poor orphan child, a thousand times 
poorer than I, who had parents and a home, and was look- 
ing forward to sweet happiness. I put my arms around 
her neck. ‘ Hedwig, I hope you will some day be as 
happy as I hope to be soon, and always remember that 
you have a true friend in me when you are sad or oppressed 
—in me and in Conrad.’ 

“Then she sprang up abruptly, and her hands pushed 
me away so roughly that she hurt me. • 

“ 4 Leave me ! ’ she cried. 

“ Her lips trembled as though she would say something 
more, but she was silent, and hurriedly began to fasten 
flowers together, yet she bound them so unevenly and tore 
them apart again. Finally she threw the wreath on the 
bench where she had been sitting, and hurried out of the 
arbor. 

“ I did not know what could be the matter with her. I 
had no suspicion then that her conscience was fighting 
with the most powerful passion of the human heart, and 
which one only conquers to bleed one’s self ; had no sus- 
picion that already the dagger which was to give me the 
death-blow was bared, and that only a cowardly hesitation 
before she brought this great guilt upon herself, made her 
ask such questions. I finished the work alone, until it lay 
before me, charming with its gay splendor of color, and 
Cousin Wieschen praised it as she came through the garden. 

“And so came Whitsun Eve, and the house and garden 
were quiet ; the night-wind whispered softly in the trees, 
but nothing else stirred. Conrad did not come to supper ; 
only we women sat around the table, as usual. We said 
but little, and I scarcely touched the food ; nor could Hed- 
wig eat, and she looked ill, so that Cousin Wieschen pre- 
scribed herb-tea for her. We finished the meal silently, 
and each left the room alone. 


The Romance of an Old House. 


i8 5 


“ The last rays of the setting sun shed a rosy light upon 
my father’s grave face as he sat by the window in his room. 

‘ To-morrow I shall see fulfilled the wish of my heart,’ said 
he, as I kissed him good-night. ‘ Has not God always dealt 
graciously with us ? ’ And as I went out he warned me : 
‘ Be quiet, so that Conrad shall not be disturbed this even- 
ing.’ So I went up to my little room and took out from 
the chest the gown I was to wear to-morrow, and arranged 
everything — my heart filled with happiness. I even cut 
a few sprays from the myrtle vine, and of rosemary a few 
twigs, to lay in my hymn-book. And when all was ready, 
I put out the light, and seating myself beside the open 
window, began to dream of the morrow’s happiness. 

“ It was a dark, sultry evening in early June ; the small 
room seemed suffocatingly close to me, or was it only that 
the blood rushed to my heart ? Through the branches of 
the linden-tree I could see flashes of distant lightning, 
and the perfume of elder and other blooming shrubs was 
overpowering. 

“ I do not know how I happened to fall asleep, but I 
waked with a start. I thought I had had a bad dream, 
for it could never be the truth ! It seemed to me that I 
heard whispered words of love ; and plainly, so plainly that 
my heart overflowed with wild rage and misery, the words 
now fell on my ear : 

“ ‘ Hedwig, Hedwig, I cannot help it ; may God in His 
mercy be gracious to me — it is not so great a sin as if I 
desecrate His holy house with a false oath ! ’ 

“ Then silence, and again his voice, so sweet that I 
shuddered in pain and wonder, and yet I clinched my 
hands angrily, and shook with delirious fury. 

“ ‘ What are misery, scorn, and calumny now, Hedwig ? 
Is not a heart that understands me worth more than all else ? ’ 

“ And I heard a suppressed cry of joy from Hed wig’s 


The Romance of an Old House. 


1 86 


lips, and whispering — words that I could not understand ; 
then there were steps on the stairs, and his door closed. 
My head sank heavily upon the window-seat, my hands 
clasped each other, and I did not know whether I were 
waking or dreaming. 

“ Scales seemed to fall from my eyes : had I been blind 
until this moment ? He had never loved me, had only 
reached out for me as a drowning man clutches at a straw ; 
he had thought he could master his passion were he bound 
to his office and to a wife, but at the last hour it had con- 
quered him. What would come now ? 

“ In my confusion and woe, such thoughts crowded 
upon my poor mind until I roused myself, and tottered 
across the room. What I wished I did not know myself, 
when I stood in the hall. I thought of going to him, of 
telling him that his happiness was dearer to me than my 
own, that I would give him back his word, and would give 
my blessing to him and Hedwig, since he loved her more 
than me. But as I reached out for the door-knob, my 
hand sank down, and I had not strength to raise it again, 
and, shaking as though in a chill, I crouched outside his 
door in the darkness, for how long I know not. 

“ Nothing stirred in the house ; only the old clock’s 
pendulum moved on, untroubled that its swing brought 
gloomy hours of misery. And gradually it grew lighter, 
and the gray dawn shone through the window over the 
stairs. Suddenly I started up ; it seemed to me that some- 
thing stirred in Conrad’s room. I pressed myself tightly 
against the wall, for just then the door opened, and he 
came out. He passed close to me on his way to the stairs, 
at the head of which he paused for a moment, leaning 
against the newel-post. In the dim light I saw his pale 
face, and distinguished his knapsack and staff, and slowly 
and heavily, like a weary man, he descended the first step, 


The Romance of an Old House. 


187 


and the heavy, slow steps echoed in the hall below ; 
now they stopped, then continued ; the garden door was 
softly opened, then all was still — terribly still. 

“ ‘ Conrad, Conrad ! ’ I tried to call, but could not. 
Thus may one feel who is carried to the tomb, apparently 
dead, as the light of day vanishes from his sight, and he 
is incapable of telling that he lives. ‘ Conrad, Conrad ! * 

I cried at length, but the sound of my voice frightened 
me. I rushed down into the garden, and ran down the 
damp path to the gate ; it was ajar, as though some one 
in his haste had forgotten to close it. The road lead- 
ing around the corner of the forest lay solitary before 
me, but in the gray dawn my eyes perceived a white lace 
handkerchief, which hung, wet with dew, on the haw- 
thorn-bush near the gate ; and I knew it, for Hedwig had 
worn it around her neck the day before. 

“ * With her ! * I stammered. It seemed to me that I 
should lose my senses again, and with both hands I 
clutched the branches of the bush, not noticing the thorns 
which wounded me, as I stared into the distance. Grad- 
ually I became conscious of the fearful emptiness of the 
life which would now be mine. Behind me lay the gar- 
den of my youth, in which roses had bloomed until to-day 
— before me, in the gray dawn, was an endless nothingness. 

“ And gradually it grew lighter and lighter. There was 
a crimson radiance in the east ; a lark soared upward with 
jubilant song. I have never wished to see the sun rise 
again. 

“ So I stood until Cousin Wieschen shook me, and her 
faithful old face gazed at me in horror. 

“‘God— God pity you, Christiana!’ she stammered. 
And as I looked up, the garden was bathed in golden sun- 
light, the birds sang in the trees, and the bells in the castle 
tower began to ring. 


i88 


The Romance of an Old House. 


“ ‘Whitsunday ! ’ said I. 

“But the old woman threw her arm around me. ‘ Are 
you dreaming ? Do you not know what has happened ? 
Your lover has gone, and with him your fine cousin ; and 
your father is fighting the last fight of all in his room. 
Control yourself, and come, if you wish to see him alive.’ 

“ As I still stood there, incapable of comprehending it, 
she drew me by main force through the garden, for al- 
ready gayly dressed people were passing the hedge, and 
she pushed me over the threshold which his foot had 
crossed earlier, and drew me into father’s room ; and there 
lay my mother before the chair in which he rested ; his 
face was as white as the linen upon which his head lay, 
and his fingers grasped convulsively an open letter. Some- 
what aside stood father’s substitute, in his official robes, 
holding the vessels containing the blessed sacrament, his 
face troubled, while the doctor held the sick man’s hand 
and counted his pulse. There was a terrible stillness in 
the room. 

“ But when father saw me he said : 

“ ‘ My poor child, your lot is the hardest.’ 

“ And again all was still. Then the knocker on the 
front door rapped, and the dying man sat up : 

“ ‘ He is coming, he comes back penitent. Make room 
for him ! ’ 

“ But when the door was violently thrown open, it was 
Walter, who threw himself down beside me sobbing, and 
embraced father’s knees, and again there was silence for 
a while ; then his heart beat no more. 

“ But the bells rang outside for the third time, and the 
people flocked to the church to hear Conrad. Then 
Cousin Wieschen went and drew the curtains before the 
windows, and bolted the door of the house where disgrace 
and dishonor had entered, and with them the dread mes- 


The Romance of an Old House . 


189 


senger of death. And when father was laid out I sat in 
my little room, before the window of which the linden 
branches tossed in the sunlight, and tried to pray. But 
when I began to speak, my lips would not frame words of 
prayer. My heart was angry and rebellious, and I shud- 
dered at my own thoughts. 

“ Long years passed like a nightmare. I became very 
quiet, spun and sewed, and took care of my mother, who 
had been weak and ill since that day. 

“ Father’s successor occupied his room. He was un- 
married, and gladly let mother, Cousin Wieschen, and me 
stay in the house instead of going to the house provided 
for the widow of a court chaplain — a small, cheerless 
building in the city below, which was now occupied by the 
very old widow of a pastor. Cousin Wieschen had always 
been a capable little woman, and cared for our welfare, 
which I would never have thought of myself. Everything 
was indifferent to me, and when a new morning dawned, 
and I awoke, it weighed upon me, and I thought, ‘ An- 
other day,’ and in the evening I rejoiced that it was over. 

“Walter had long since taken to himself a wife, and was 
a father. He was installed in Wolferode as forester, and 
was an upright man, who clung to us with the old love. 
Only, when he talked of Conrad he could never speak of 
him otherwise than harshly and angrily. He called Hed- 
wig a wench, and him a fool and scoundrel. At such times 
I would quietly leave the room, for such talk pained me. 

“ No day passed that I did not think of Conrad. We 
had never heard anything of him, and did not know where 
his fortunes had led him, the world is so large. But I 
wished no news of him. I cherished his memory in my 
heart as of one dead, for whom we never cease to mourn. 
Sometimes I thought that he might already be dead, and 


190 


The Romance of an Old House. 


such a thought was sweet and soothing. But when I 
pictured him living, and with Hedwig, my heart ached, 
and anger and jealousy filled it, while in anguish and 
shame I confessed to myself that shame and misery with 
him were better a thousand times than my solitary life 
here, far from him, although calm and secure. Then I 
imagined how he would clasp her in his arms and kiss 
her, while she sang to him the songs which had bewitched 
him, how he would care for her, and share the last morsel 
of bread, perhaps begged in poverty and misery, with her. 

“ Hedwig ! May God forgive me ! I hated her in my 
envy and jealousy, with a hatred such as can spring up 
only in a heart which has been robbed of its all. 

“ And so I became a gloomy woman, who gave pleasure 
to no one in this world, for even my mother complained 
that I only did what I must, and never had a pleasant 
word for her. I could not help it. Do roses bloom in a 
garden desolated by hailstorms ? 

“ In the castle all was as usual. Many festivities and 
entertainments were held there now, as they had been 
formerly, and Princess Liselotte, with her lovely smile, 
still drove past our doors as though the years left no traces 
on her beauty, but she no longer looked up at the windows. 
What did she care where he who had once enjoyed the 
shelter of this house now roamed ? 

“ When I was thirty years old, one autumn evening I 
stood in the garden and gazed over the hedge out across 
the country. The wind blew fiercely, and dark clouds 
chased each other across the sky. A fine rain wet my 
face, and hair, in which already there was many a silver 
thread. And as the storm pulled at my garments, and tore 
the last leaves from the trees, my thoughts were of Con- 
rad, and that he would never again come up the path 
which he had so often trodden. To-day I had been 


The Romance of an Old House. 


191 


strangely reminded of him, for to-night they were to act 
in the theatre ‘Romeo and Juliet,’ which Conrad had read 
to us once on just such an autumn evening. Absorbed 
in my gloomy recollections, I began to wander up and 
down the garden for a long time, until it grew dark, and 
my wet garments dragged after me heavily. 

“ As I neared the gate again, I saw a man’s tall figure 
standing near it ; but in the twilight I could not distinguish 
his rank, and fancied he was a beggar, for beggars were 
common in our mountains. And as I was accustomed to 
give alms in memory of Conrad, I put my hand in my 
pocket, and drew out a groschen, going nearer to the 
man, to ask what he wanted and whether he would not be 
glad of some warm soup and dry shoes. 

“ But he who stood there did not move, nor take the 
offered gift, but leaned against the gate-post as though 
faint. Then a dim foreboding flashed to my mind. 

“ ‘ Christiana ! ’ rang in my ears, in the old, well-beloved 
voice. 

“ ‘ Conrad ! ’ I was about to cry in delight, but I con- 
trolled myself. My feet seemed rooted to the ground, and 
my pride and despised love rose in arms. 

“ ‘ I will go away again immediately, Christiana, only let 
me come into the garden once more — the garden which 
was my childhood’s paradise ; and give me your hand once 
more, that I may die in peace. I have wandered for days 
and for nights ; if you do not wish me to come in, I will 
go away without doing so, only say that you forgive me.’ 

“ He stood close to me, and reached out for my hands, 
and in this moment everything that I had suffered seemed 
washed away, and at the sound of his voice the linden- 
tree rustled again, while the nightingale sang sweetly, as it 
had done years before. 

“ ‘ Conrad ! ’ said I,‘ come in ; it is inhospitable weather.’ 

13 


192 


The Romance of an Old House. 


“ Then he came with me, and it seemed as though every 
step caused him great pain, for he breathed loudly and 
heavily. Mother and Cousin Wieschen were already 
asleep, so I took him to my room, in which the lamp 
burned, and the fire crackled in the stove. 

“ We looked at each other for a long time, without a 
word ; but burning tears ran down my cheeks. He stood 
before me a broken man, misery and want, hunger and 
grief and sickness on the pale face and in the shabby 
clothes he wore. 

“ ‘ This is all that I have accomplished, Christiana,’ 
said he, and two crimson spots appeared in his cheeks. 

* Apollo and the Muses have poorly rewarded me.’ 

“ He smiled, but it was a mere contortion of the lips, 
and he sank down upon the sofa near by. 

“ ‘ Who told you to follow them ? ’ I was tempted to 
cry, through my tears. But why should I reproach him 
now ? I hurried to fetch food and drink and dry clothes, 
but he detained me. 

“ ‘ It comes too late, Christiana ; I am happy now that I 
have seen you once more. Let me stay but a moment ; 
then I will bid you good-by, and never see you again.’ 

“ ‘You will stay, Conrad. I shall not let you go out in 
this storm. Sleep and warm yourself.’ 

“ ‘ I cannot,’ he replied, and shook? with cold. But, 
nevertheless, he drew a chair up to the stove, and eagerly 
drank the hot wine I brought him. 

“ ‘ Father died of grief for me. Your youth was em- 
bittered by me, and I am what you see,’ he began, after a 
long silence. 

“ ‘ Then you were not fortunate, Conrad ? ’ 

“ He shook his head. 

“ ‘ It is easily told. The woman I loved betrayed me, 
art repulsed me — what else is there to tell ? ’ 


The Romance of an Old House. 


193 


“ * Hedwig ! Hedwig ! * I cried, almost beside myself. 

“ ‘ If you ask in Dresden for Count Promnitz, they 
will mention her name to you,’ he whispered, in an almost 
suffocated voice. ‘ And I — ’ he added, dully, ‘ my chest ! 
oh, my chest ! * And he sank back with a groan. 

“ 1 Conrad ! my darling Conrad ! ’ I cried, ‘ rest from 
your sorrow and wanderings here with me ! ’ 

“ Then the dark eyes flashed once more with their old 
brilliancy, and he pressed my hand against his chest, but 
words failed him. And when the night was over, and the 
storm had subsided, I stood before him in silent pain. He 
who had been the joy and grief of my life had gone home, 
had passed away. 

“ And the day passed, and evening fell : Cousin Wieschen 
had laid him out, with many tears, and exclamations that 
she must experience this too. The fine kerchief, embroid- 
ered with the coat of arms, which she had kept for him 
all these years, now covered his calm face : he lay in the 
room he had once occupied ; the windows were open, the 
breeze blew the curtains far into the room, and moved 
the white sheets on the bier. The windows of the castle 
above were brilliantly illuminated, and down the hill came 
a procession with torches, a gay crowd with music. The 
court was on its way to the theatre. The golden inscrip- 
tion shone treacherously as I stood at the window : 
‘•Apollini et Musis.’ 

“ Princess Liselotte was probably now sitting there, 
laughing and jesting, while he who had inherited his hot 
blood from her lay here cold and dead. Was there no 
fidelity on earth ? 

“ But hark ! There was a faint creak of the stairs, and 
a rustle over the hall-floor as of a woman’s velvet train : 
a hand turned the door-knob, and a woman’s tall figure 
appeared on the threshold. In the pale moonlight the 


194 


The Romance of an Old House. 


golden spangles on her gown sparkled from under the 
waterproof which she had thrown around her ; she hur- 
ried up to the bier upon which he rested, and bending 
over him she raised the cloth from his face, and her 
cheeks rested against his cold ones. 

“ I drew far back into the window recess, and listened 
to her. She did not say a word, she only caressed him 
fondly, as though she would fain make good to him in 
death what she had omitted in life. How she had en- 
tered the house I do not know, nor who had brought her 
the news of his death. But on Conrad’s breast lay a 
laurel wreath, the only one life had bestowed upon 
him. 

“ We buried him near the linden-tree ; no cross marks 
his grave. But I often sit on the stone bench, and hear 
the nightingales sing, in the spring-time, or watch the 
leaves fall, and ” 

Here the manuscript ended. 

It was as though I awaked from a vivid dream. The 
fire had long since gone out in the stove, and the first 
gray light of dawn filled the room. 

Did I not say that these walls could speak ? 

Still under the spell of what I had read, I rose and left 
the room. The hall was still dark, only through the win- 
dow over the stairs fell a faint light, and showed me the 
still firm oaken stairs and artistic iron bannisters. I easily 
found the door which led from the high vaulted kitchen 
out into the garden. A simple little garden, probably 
entirely changed in the course of two centuries, it lay 
before me in the dawn, wild and desolate. But a path 
still led through the middle down to the little gate in the 
hedge, and at my right, near the house, stood the witness 
of past joys and sorrows, the magnificent old linden-tree, 


The Romance of- an Old House. 


J 95 


and its branches almost touched the small panes of the 
little window in the upper story — Christiana’s room. 

I went over to the old sandstone bench, and gazed at 
it. It was very simple, with no back, and rested upon two 
finely carved griffins, sitting upright. Withered leaves lay 
thick on the ground around, and probably covered the 
spot where Conrad was buried. I pushed them aside with 
my foot, and — yes, under the moist leaves lay a weather- 
beaten tombstone : 

Conrad Ehrentraut, 

A. Domini, 16S0 ; 

nothing more — and this almost illegible, scarcely dis- 
tinguishable. 

And gradually it grew lighter and lighter, the sparrows 
began to twitter in the trees, and suddenly house and gar- 
den were bathed in dazzling sunlight, the tops of the lin- 
dens murmured softly in the morning breeze, and in the 
arched doorway of the entrance stood Dorchen, bright as 
the morning itself. 

“ Oh, here you are, Mr. Architect. I bring you your 
coffee. Grandmother saw your lamp burning all night 
long. Did you not sleep at all ? ” she asked, looking at me. 
“ No, Dorchen, I did not sleep,” I replied. 

“ Were you reading the old papers about Christiana ? ” 
said she. “ They are sad, are they not ? Grandmother 
says her grandmother knew her ; she was a very old 

woman then, and she had one great aversion ” 

“ Indeed, Dorchen ! What was that ? ” 

“She could not bear the theatre over there, and when 
she went out she always made a wide circuit through the 
garden ; but poor, hungry people, vagabonds, actors, and 
such like, she gave to with willing hands, whatever she had. 
Do you understand that, Mr. Architect ? ” 

“ Yes, Dorchen. But now, where is my coffee ? For I 


196 


The Romance of an Old House. 


must go to work. In years I have not looked forward 
with so much pleasure to anything as to the renovating of 
this old house. Do you understand that ? ” 

“ No,” laughed the girl, “ it is a gloomy old nest ; I 
should not like to live in it. Only think, Christiana is 
also buried under the linden.” 

“ Really ? ” I asked, with interest. 

“ Grandmother says so. I think her sweetheart had 
lain there for years when she, Christiana, died.” 

Singing a gay song, Dorchen ran into the house, and was 
already up-stairs when I mounted the staircase, almost 
reverently. 

On my work-table, among all the plans, sketches, and 
estimates, from that time lay those yellow pages, and when 
I was too weary of the dust of centuries, I buried myself 
in the old love-story, which, amid all the rubbish and 
mould, bloomed as sweetly as a fresh rose on a bush 
blighted by the storm. 

I have a love for old houses. 




V. 

MY COUSIN URSULA. 


The twenty-fourth of December ! There is something 
strange about this day : one cannot escape its charm, 
even when one is a solitary old man as I am, whom' the 
storms of life have gradually robbed of fresh youth. I 
seem to myself like the dying old linden-tree in the gar- 
den, by the city walls. I well remember when it was 
young and green — now it is only an old leafless trunk : 
we have both grown old. The mayor recently asked me 
casually if I did not want to have it cut down, and a 
young one planted in its place. No, as long as I live — 
never, for a large part of my sweet, rapturous youth is 
bound up with that linden-tree. 

The twenty-fourth of December ! It seems to me no 
other day is so made for recollections. A trifle, an acci- 
dent, brings back old, almost forgotten stories, and makes 
them seem so vivid that we are frightened, and our old 
hearts beat more rapidly with pain and pleasure. An acci- 
dent, I said : so it was with me. 

I stand at the window in my room, and gaze out into 
the street. Then a maid comes hurrying along through 
the snow, parcels of cake under each arm, and three great 
twists of French bread, and disappears into the stately 
house opposite. A plump, pretty woman just then comes 


198 


My Cousiti Ursula. 


behind the white curtains of the window ; it seems to me 
that the mayor’s wife turns from red to white, under her 
dainty lace cap. I knew her when she was a six-weeks- 
old baby ; now she has grown sons. I saw in the room 
behind her, as she opened the window, a large Christmas- 
tree, laden with all sorts of gay trifles. But, good heavens ! 
what is the matter with the woman ? She closes the win- 
dow and disappears — now she stands at the open front 
door, and spreads out her arms. God bless her ! her sailor 
has come home. 

The woman has thrown her arms around a blue sailor 
jacket ; I see a blonde, curly head, under its oilskin cap, 
resting on her shoulder ; now they are in the house. Old 
Rieka drags a huge chest up the steps ; now she, too, is 
inside, and the door is closed. What a tall, slim fellow he 
has become, this boy whom the mayor’s wife has just 
pressed to her mother’s heart, almost as well-grown as 

That was the accident, and suddenly Henry rose before 
me — Henry as he lived and breathed, his sun-burned, 
handsome face, his kind blue eyes, and blond hair. I will 
think of him no more. 

I leave the window, open my bookcase, and take down 
three or four books from the middle shelf, where I keep my 
best literature. I take one of the books, seat myself in 
an arm-chair, and open it. Between the very first pages 
lies a long dark curl of woman’s hair : hastily I look at the 
title, “ Hannah and the Little Chicken,” and an inscrip- 
tion in my handwriting. 

“My dear Ursula, for Christmas, 18 — , William Nord- 
mann, stud, jur .,” I read. Good heavens ! I take the curl 
and wind it round my finger, and suddenly this curl is on 
the head of a light, charming little creature. I see a dark, 
beautiful face, glossy dark braids, and a pair of dark, 
childish eyes. 


My Cousin Ursula. 


199 


The second accident. My youth comes back to me — 
me, the old, solitary man. Come then, ye forms ! These 
are the same rooms through which you once walked. 

Father’s writing-desk still stands on the same spot, and 
there, when he was taken away in the midst of his activity, 
I have seated myself and begun work in his place. My 
parents’ pictures hang as usual over the sofa, and gaze 
down at me lovingly and confidingly. Come, and I will 
receive you ceremoniously ; here is a bottle of Haute Sau- 
terne, my father’s favorite wine, and a friendly hand has 
given me cake, so that I, too, may realize that it is Christ- 
mas Eve. Twilight has gradually settled down. Hark ! 
there are the bells of St. Mary’s ; they ring outf or the 
sacred evening as solemnly and full toned as formerly. I 
fill a glass to the very brim : “ Welcome to you and the 
Christmas Eves of my youth, with their fragrant fir-trees 
and lighted candles.” 

We both leave our playthings under the lighted tree, 
Henry and I, and stand before the life-size portrait in oils 
of our mother, which she gave to father to-day. Now our 
parents hold each other’s hands, and gaze into each other’s 
eyes. 

“ Why did you give father your picture ? ” Henry asked 
mother ; “you are always with him.” 

Then our parents exchanged glances again, and mother 
opened her arms and pressed our blonde heads to her 
bosom, and as I gazed at her tender face in surprise, her 
eyes were full of tears. 

We could not understand this then, for Henry was but 
seven and I five years old, but soon we learned to under- 
stand it. 

Two more Christmas Eves passed, twice more the 
Christmas-tree burned in the great parlor, dressed by 


200 


My Cousin Ursula. 


mother’s own hands, then came a Christmas Eve when our 
old house was desolate and dark. She who had formerly 
dressed our tree had slumbered since June, under the sod 
in St. Mary’s Churchyard. What such a loss is to a child 
it cannot at first realize, thank God ! Otherwise such a 
little heart would be crushed under the weight ; only grad- 
ually does it realize the gap in its existence. 

On this motherless Christmas, we had secretly bought 
presents for father with our savings and had thought that 
the note-book from Henry, and the beautiful six-sided 
pencil from me, would greatly please him. And we had 
been into the garden, and had picked fir branches and 
holly in the snow-storm, and we had gone hand in hand 
to St. Mary’s to our mother’s grave. She had always been 
so fond of the smooth, pointed leaves, which we planted in 
the snow covering her grave. The grave-digger’s young 
wife nodded to us pleasantly and compassionately, as we 
trotted back to the entrance, and called her own stout 
boys in from the street where they were snow-balling each 
other. It had begun to grow dark, and involuntarily we 
quickened our pace ; the church-bells now rang out for the 
service. The streets had become more quiet, only the 
bakery was still crowded with people buying fresh cakes. 

“We did not bake cakes at home this time, Willy,” said 
Henry to me. 

I shook my head. But the Christmas-tree must be 
lighted ; we had agreed to that. Father was surely home 
now. 

Our street was quite deserted ; every one was probably 
in the house preparing for the distribution of gifts. Only 
the old Christmas song rang out, sung by poor, shivering 
children in front of our house. “ Praise God, ye Chris- 
tians all, to-day — God, on His throne on high.” Our door 
was opened softly, and Hannah gave the largest girl some- 


My Cousin Ursula. 


201 


thing. “Go away, children,” we heard her say; “sing 
somewhere else.” And when she saw us she added, in her 
Holstein German : “ Oh, there you are, boys ; your father 
has been looking everywhere for you.” 

Father sat at his writing-desk in his room, and gazed at 
the picture of mother ; in the twilight the delicate head 
rose above the white gown as though upborne on angel 
wings. “ Henry, Willy,” said father, as we stood before 
him, “ it is the first Christmas without mother ; she no 
longer can dress a tree for you.” 

He paused, for his voice suddenly broke, and he pointed 
to the round table in front of the sofa. “ There is some- 
thing there for each of you. And now, be dear boys.” 
He stroked our heads and rose. 

“Take them ! Take them ! ” he cried hastily, and as 
though in a dream we felt books, skates, and satchels in 
our hands, and we stood outside in the dimly lighted cor- 
ridor in amazement, gazing at each other’s pale, childish 
faces, strangely sad and anxious. 

Then a groan of agony issued from father’s room. 
“ Sophie ! Sophie ! ” Then a sob — heart-breaking weep- 
ing. I will never forget it. My skates and books crashed 
to the floor, and I leaned against the cold wall and cried 
my little heart out with pain. But Henry grew white to 
the lips ; he would not cry. Was he not a big boy ? 

Finally Hannah took us into her room. “ Now be still, 
my little Willy. Father is crying for mother ; he loved her 
so dearly. Here, dear, I have something for you ; now go 
and play soldiers in the nursery.” And she gave us each 
a gay soldier’s cap. “ And I have made some cookies for 
supper ; don’t cry ! ” 

But I would hear nothing of soldiers, of cakes, and 
playthings ; and when Henry, already comforted, sat at 
table and did justice to his favorite dish, I crept into 


202 


My Cousin Ursula. 


father’s room again. All was quiet in there, and I opened 
the door softly. 

“ Who is it ? ” asked his voice. 

“ Only I, papa,” I stammered. 

“ Only you, my little one ! ” was the gentle answer. 
And then I went up to him, climbed on his knees, and 
stroked his cheeks with shy tenderness. 

“Bring Henry too,” said he then, and kissed me. I ran 
into the nursery. Henry had eaten his fill, but his pretty 
face wore a sly, confused look as I entered the room, and 
before him on the table, between large and small nuts, lay 
my greatest pride, the pretty nut-cracker, broken in two 
pieces. Mother had given it to me last Christmas, and I 
had kept it carefully put away in a drawer of my cup- 
board. Henry’s had long since gone the way of all flesh, 
and now this one ! 

“ It is mine,” I stammered, and began to cry. 

“ The nut was too hard,” he murmured in excuse. He 
tried to comfort me, and fetched his savings bank. “ I 
will buy you another, Willy.” 

“ I want no other,” I cried, and picked up the pieces, 
and carefully put them away ; and mourning deeply for 
the broken nut-cracker, I returned with Henry to father, 
and silently we sat on his knees. 

“ Always be very fond of each other,” said he, before 
we went to sleep; “never injure each other.” And he 
clasped our hands together in his right hand. I swallowed 
my tears courageously, but I have never looked at another 
nut-cracker. 

Gradually our home grew pleasanter : Aunt Bertha and 
her little daughter lived with us now. She sat in the corner 
room by the window, where mother had sat : on the stool 
at her feet crouched little Ursula, with a book of fairy 
stories, and her long dark braids hung down to the floor. 


My Cousin Ursula. 


203 


Now our Christmas holidays were much merrier than 
formerly, for Ursula was a wild little thing. Henry called 
her only “ little stupid,” or worse names. It seemed as 
though the two were always on hostile terms ; why, they 
probably did not know, themselves. Ursula and I were 
always the best of friends ; in winter, in the corner by the 
stove, and in summer out in our shady garden. She was 
an original child, and saw everything through rose-colored 
spectacles. We had magic grottoes, and palaces of bushes, 
and high up in the old linden-tree a mountain castle ; the 
girl’s dark head peeping out from the thickly interlacing 
branches made a charming picture. But in the rotten old 
boat which floated on the quiet pond bordering on our 
garden, we sailed to discover strange islands. In all that 
she did there was an unconscious glorification of sober, 
every-day reality, hers was such a happy, charmingly 
roguish nature. One could not be angry with her when 
one discovered that he was the dupe, and her silvery laugh 
rang out happily at the success of her prank. How such 
a teasing elf child could belong to the grave, silent Aunt 
Bertha is a riddle to me, even to-day ; she could not un- 
derstand the strange little being God had given her, and 
often scolded her for her foolishness. 

With the exception of Henry, she was the favorite of the 
whole house. Even my father’s grave face wore a smile 
when the kobold crept into his room, and, throwing her 
arms around his neck, cried : “Uncle, the sun shines so 
brightly in the garden.” 

“ I see it,” he would answer jokingly ; “some of it has 
remained clinging to you, Ursula.” And then he would 
put on his cap, and take the child’s hand, while she 
would wander up and down the middle path in the garden, 
her head bent, as patiently as though she never were a wild 
Ursula. 


204 


My Cousin Ursula. 


Frequent complaints came from the school ; she was a 
talented but flighty child, said her teacher, and the worst 
was, that she made the other scholars rebellious by her 
pranks. It was true, they ran after Ursula “like a flock 
of sheep,” declared Henry, very ungallantly. He was a 
large boy now, went to dancing-school, and had a sweet- 
heart, the chubby-cheeked blonde daughter of a beer and 
sausage dealer at the market, red and white as an apple, 
and round and soft as the dumplings which Hannah made 
for dinner every Sunday. 

Henry really treated little Ursula very condescendingly, 
but in the summer evenings he walked past the shop for 
hours, greeting perhaps fifty times his sweetheart, who 
stood in the shop door, blooming as a peony, her blue eyes 
gazing tenderly at Henry. “You can believe it, Willy,” 
said Ursula, as we sat under the linden-tree in the gar- 
den, the sunset lending a rosy tinge to her dark face. 
“ Martha is fearfully stupid, even if she is to be confirmed 
at Easter. She cannot even read correctly.” 

“You will never be anything more than a rope-dancer,” 
said Henry, crossly, a short time after, when he wished to 
study ; and Ursula, who sat at the same table with a box 
full of paper dolls for which she was making the most 
charming clothes, disturbed the poor fellow every minute 
by dancing the little figures in front of the lamp, so that 
their shadows fell on his books. “ You are a true gypsy ! ” 

Clap ! and Henry received a slap, not very hard but 
decided, on his cheek. “Why do you study only when 
the rest of us are through, and want to play ?” cried she, 
crimson with anger. “ You ran after that fat Martha all 
the afternoon, and again after supper, and now you would 
not be here if it were not raining.” 

“ You are a girl,” said he, rubbing his cheek, “ other- 
wise it would go hard with you. But you shall pay for 


My Cousin Ursula. 


205 


it.” And in an instant he had drawn the slender figure 
to him, and kissed the little red mouth three times. “ That 
is your punishment ; that is what is done, and to-morrow 
you will, have a mustache.” 

But Ursula’s face changed suddenly; she buried her face 
in her apron and began to weep bitterly. 

“ Do not cry,” said I, trying to comfort her, and giving 
Henry an angry glance. “ He did not mean badly.” But 
the child sobbed the more, and ran out of the room like 
a hunted creature ; we heard her hurrying upstairs where 
her mother’s bedroom was. 

“A wild cat,” said Henry, and prepared to resume 
studying. 

“ Shame on you ! ” I cried angrily. 

He stared at me. “ Nonsense ! Can you not under- 
stand a joke ? ” 

But Ursula revenged herself. A few weeks later the 
great dancing-school ball took place in the parlors of the 
“ Golden Crown,” for which ball Martha had a new white 
frock and a wreath of forget-me-nots. Henry sent her a 
bouquet by Hannah, two buds from aunt’s tea-rose bush, 
and a few myrtle twigs which Ursula had generously 
added. He stood before the small mirror in our room for 
three hours, and his hair never lay smooth enough to suit 
him ; he cut several pigeon wings, and whistled a few bars 
of the newest waltz. Yes, Henry was in the seventh 
heaven. 

Before he went away he came into the garden where 
Ursula and I sat under the linden-tree, listening to the 
nightingales just beginning their song. 

“ A pleasant time, Henry ! ” we cried. 

“ Thanks ! It is a great pity, Willy, that you do not 
like dancing ; it is a delightful amusement ! ” said he. 
“With Ursula, it is a different matter. She knows that 


206 


My Cousin Ursula. 


she would be a wall-flower all the evening,” he added 
teasingly. 

She sighed deeply, and nodded her head, but she 
showed her dimples roguishly as brother Henry walked 
blissfully toward the festive halls of the “ Golden Crown ” 
that May evening. It was quite early when he came home, 
and hurried to bed; usually such entertainments lasted until 
morning. He would not answer any of my questions, and 
the next morning at breakfast looked very depressed and 
cross. Ursula, in her pink cotton frock, already standing 
in the hall with her school-books, asked sympathetically 
what kind of a time he had had, but received merely an 
angry glance in answer. But at school I learned what a 
blow poor Henry had treacherously received. 

They had danced a dance which the Parisian ballet- 
master had told them was the latest Paris fashion, and 
which consisted of all kinds* of figures which brought the 
couples together in turn. The last figure was the crown- 
ing glory of the whole proceeding. The ladies bestowed 
scarfs upon the gentlemen, the gentlemen flowers upon the 
ladies. How the accident occurred no one could guess, 
not even Henry himself. As the lion of the evening, in 
the confusion he had received, among many other scarfs, 
one which did not quite resemble the others, and as he 
inspected it more closely, he discovered that it was made 
of paper, upon which was drawn, with a few pencil strokes, 
a strikingly life-like portrait of Martha Holzer, with puffy 
cheeks, and a laughing mouth reaching from ear to ear. 
Beneath were the lines : 

That our sausages and beer are good, by me 

All you dear people can certainly see. 

At first Henry had sworn revenge, then with an angry 
look on his face had danced the last figure with his sweet- 


My Cousin Ursula. 


207 


heart, and quietly gone home. It was malicious, but very 
droll ; there was but one opinion as to this in the school. 
Henry’s love, however, had been blighted, for a young 
heart can bear anything except that “ she ” is made 
ridiculous. 

Martha’s chains of roses were faded, she must seek con- 
solation ; but an icy coldness existed between Ursula and 
Henry, although she confessed nothing, nor did she betray 
her ally. She silently listened to several lectures from her 
mother and our father upon improper behavior, and won 
back Martha’s lost favor completely by offering to let her 
copy her sums, for arithmetic was Martha’s weak point. 

This state of affairs lasted all summer, and it was not 
pleasant. Henry gave us all trouble ; he was in a bad 
temper, and father sometimes sent for him to come to his 
room. At such times the tall, handsome fellow always 
came out with a pale face, and was very quiet for days. 
In October the unheard-of event occurred : he was not 
promoted at school, and I entered the same class with him. 

“I shall not stay at school any longer,” said he to me 
on the way home. “ I am no foot, and I must do some- 
thing which requires all my strength.” At home he threw 
his books furiously on the table, stood at the window for 
a while, and then went out into the garden. 

My joy at my promotion and good testimonials at school 
was spoiled. What now, when father learned it? for his 
plans and hopes were that his sons should study. Then 
we might hope to win good stipendiaries and take much 
care from his weary shoulders. 

Our house suddenly became very uncomfortable, 
although a cold autumn wind was blowing outside. 
Father had a suit in a neighboring town, we others sat 
around the dinner table in silence, only Ursula made a 
thousand jokes, and received many a rude word from 


208 


My Cousin Ursula. 


Henry in return. But toward evening she came running 
after me in the garden, white as chalk. “ Willy,” she 
cried, wringing her hands, “ you must come quickly ! For 



heaven s sake, what has Henry done, that your father is 
so fearfully angry ? ” 

We hurried into the house, and up-stairs to father’s room. 
All was still in there now. 

“ Let me stay here, Willy, I am so frightened,” pleaded 


My Cousin Ui'sula. 


209 


the girl. I really will not listen — 1 will wait on the 
stairs.” And as I turned round, I saw her crouching on 
the top stair, her frightened eyes fixed upon me. 

Father was striding up and down the room. Henry 
stood at the writing-desk, his curly head bowed. “ Willy,” 
began father, pausing in his walk, “ we have suddenly 
arrived at a turning-point in life. I thought that you 
silently consented to the plans which I and your dear 
dead mother made for you and your future. Perhaps it 
was wrong in me to take it for granted that you were both 
agreed to this, for one career is not suited to every one. 
We come of a family which has sent its sons for centuries 
back to the alma mate r, and which has given to the state a 
number of excellent doctors and lawyers ; there are even 
names among those of high renown. I confess that I 
should have been glad to see you join this line honorably. 
Henry has chosen otherwise, and in him especially this 
has surprised and saddened me. What do you plan for 
your future ? ” 

I stared at Henry in bewilderment. Father was forced 
to repeat his question. 

“ I wished to study, father,” said I. 

He nodded ; a smile of relief appeared on his face. 
“ Henry turns his back upon books — science ; he wishes to 
become — a sailor,” said he. 

The secret was out. I grew dizzy. “ Henry ! ” I stam- 
mered. He did not move. 

“ Each man must forge his own fate,” continued the old 
man. “ I have tried to dissuade you, Henry. I will not 
undertake the responsibility of your choice if you do not 
find your ideal realized. You will remain at school until 
New Year’s. Meanwhile I will take the necessary steps in 
Hamburg. You must not sail with any captain. As long 
as I can, I will care for you. Now go.” 

14 


210 


My Cousin Ursula. 


He held out a hand to each of us. Henry’s handsome 
face twitched, but his eyes shone. Father stroked his 
blonde head caressingly. “ I did not mean badly,” said 
he gently ; “ it was only my sorrow.” Then he quickly 
turned away. 

But down in Aunt Bertha’s room, in the twilight, we 
three sat and listened to Henry. How his eyes shone as 
he talked as though he had been on many a voyage. His 
enthusiastic young face called up a fresh, invigorating sea- 
breeze ; dark green transparent waves bore the ship to 
distant lands, a strange tropical world. Palms, reflected 
in clear, calm streams, and all the color-splendor of the 
South in its alluring, mysterious beauty, rose to our minds. 
We had all grown very quiet, even Aunt Bertha had let 
her knitting fall from her hands ; but Ursula sat there, her 
head resting in her hands, and with flushed cheeks, she 
gazed out of the window with longing gaze. Then she 
began to cry. 

“ What is the matter, foolish child ?” asked her mother. 
‘‘Why are you crying ? ” 

“ Because I am a girl,” she cried finally. 

Henry laughed aloud. “ You would have been a fine 
man, you will-o’-the-wisp.” 

“Never mind, Ursula,” said I consolingly. But my 
heart was heavy at my brother’s glowing descriptions. 
“ We will stay at home with father.” 

“ Water is an uncertain element,” remarked Aunt Ber- 
tha. Henry laughed the more. 

“ Boy,” said old Hannah, whose face, as she stood in the 
doorway, had grown pale at this great news, “ you have the 
sailor fever ; you are too hopeful. God grant that you may 
not be disappointed.” 

Hannah’s words made me gaze sadly at Henry, for she 
could speak of such matters : her sister was the widow of 


My Cousin Ursula . 


a ii 


a pilot, who had been drowned one stormy night, as 
Hannah could tell. 

A few weeks later, father took Henry to Hamburg. He 
had found a good ship and kind captain sooner than he 
had expected. That the trim brig with which Henry was 
to make his first voyage bore our mother’s name, Sophie , 
may have made the old man pleasantly disposed to it ; he 
called this a good omen. 

It was a stormy day early in November. Aunt’s and 
Hannah’s eyes were red from weeping. Hannah had 
cooked the boy’s favorite dishes for dinner. “ If his 
mother were alive she would worry herself to a shadow,” 
she said to me, and shook her head. 

Ursula was pale, although she had not wept. “ I wish 
I could go with you,” she declared ; “ and if you find a 
pearl, Henry — a large, beautiful one — send it to me,” she 
begged quite seriously. 

“ You probably think that one can catch a pearl on a 
hook,” he said smilingly. She stared at him, but did not 
laugh at his jesting remark. 

When the hands of the clock pointed to a quarter of one 
it was time. Henry kissed us all in turn, even Ursula. 
“ No quarrelling for the last day,” said he gently, patting 
her cheeks, “ and think of me on Christmas Day, for then 
I shall be just in the middle of the ocean.” 

None of the women must accompany him to the post- 
chaise. Henry had forbidden it ; all his classmates were 
assembled there, and he did not want to have the parting 
a tearful one. Afterward, as I went home alone in the 
pale November sunshine, I felt sad and oppressed ; my 
thoughts followed the jolting coach along the sandy road ; 
I still saw his handsome face, from which the wind blew 
back the curly hairs, as he waved his cap in farewell, 
while his expression was that of joyful expectation. 


212 


My Cousin U?'sula. 


“ He sent another good-by,” I said to aunt and Ursula, 
and then went to the room which until now we had occu- 
pied together, and suddenly the hot tears rushed to my 
eyes, half in mourning for the departing one, half with 



longing that I, too, might go out in to the wide world. I 
was not the only sad one ; we all missed him. 

As I stood by the window in my room, gazing up at the 
bright stars, I tried to imagine a voyage over the endless 
ocean. Perhaps now he, too, stood and gazed up at the 


My Cousin Ursula. 


213 


stars, perhaps the sound of the Christmas chimes at home 
rang in his ears, and made him clasp his hands reverently, 
and his lips recite the Christmas collect, and a prayer for 
us at home. 

I worked my way through the last classes at school with 
iron industry. When Ursula was confirmed, I took my 
final examination ; I had seen the child every day, and yet 
on Palm Sunday she seemed strangely unfamiliar to me, 
surprisingly lovely. Had I then, absorbed in my studies, 
failed to remark how tall and slender she had become, or 
was it the plain black gown that she wore, which made 
her appear so young-ladyfied ? I stared at her as though 
in a dream. 

She had cried in church, she had clung to father’s neck, 
and thanked him again and again for all that she had 
enjoyed in his house, under his protection. 

“ I have only thanks to give,” the old man had replied. 
“ Would it not have been all too lonely without you, now 
that Willy, too, leaves his father’s house ? ” And he gave 
me a proud glance which made my heart beat with joy, 
for in a few days I was to go to Halle, where father had 
once studied law. 

The day before, we wandered once more through the 
garden, Ursula and I. She had laid her hand on my 
shoulder, and thus we sought our favorite spot for the last 
time. 

“ When you come home for your vacations,” she said, 
“ I hope we will all be here together ; Henry will come 
— he wrote that he would be in Hamburg again in the 
autumn.” 

“ God grant it ! ” I said heartily. I paused under the 
linden-tree, for Ursula stooped to the ground. There 
stood a willow coop, under which was a little hen, cluck- 
ing and calling to her tiny yellow chickens, who ran in and 


214 


My Cousin Ursula. 


out of the opening of the coop ; and the sunbeams fell 
through the new green leaves of the linden, and formed a 
golden halo around the dark, girlish head. 

“ They are mine, all mine, Willy,” she cried ; “ I raised 
them myself, and this morning I carried them out here in 
the sunshine, so that they might enjoy their young lives. 
Is it not charming, such a gay little nursery ? ” She 
raised her head and gazed at me with her brown eyes 
most happily. I have never forgotten this picture — 
this glance. 

“ Since when have you been such a little house-wife, 
Ursula?” I asked, merely for the sake of saying something. 

She laughed and tapped her forehead. “You goose ! ” 
said she, with a pout. “ I do not know why, but for the 
last half-year you have been like a deaf-mute, always at 
your stupid old books. And when one spoke to you, you 
did not answer, or started as though wakened from a deep 
sleep. You look like one who has starved for seven 
months, and — I do not like you as you are now, Willy.” 

“Oh, it will all be different now,” said I consolingly; 
“ the hard examinations, you know.” 

“Do not be vexed, Willy,” she cried, coming clpse to 
me. “ You are so good, they all say; you have always been 
much too good and sensible. Please do something foolish 
for once, so that one need not stand in such awe of 
you.” 

She really gazed at me compassionately, and then we 
both laughed. “Oh, Ursula, has such a thing ever been 
heard of ?” said I. “ You beg, with wringing of hands and 
entreaties, your own cousin to do something foolish. I 
almost believe that Henry is right, and that you have 
gypsy blood in your veins.” 

“I do not know,” she replied thoughtfully, “but at 
times my own thoughts frighten me — they are so wild, as 


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217 


though they were not my own ; I cannot catch nor hold 
them — but it is probably so with every one — eh ? ” 

“ Give me a keepsake, Ursula,” I asked, as I stood be- 
fore her the next day, ready for the journey. We were all 
in the room of her mother, who was occupied elsewhere. 

“Do you need one to remember me by?” said she 
teasingly. 

“You know that better than I, Ursula ! ” 

“ Well then, come here ! ” She stood before her sewing- 
table, and began to rummage in the drawers as though 
seeking something. The slender fingers overturned 
everything ; mere childish trifles were there, ribbons and 
pictures, needle-books and all sorts of rubbish. “ I have 
nothing,” said she at length. “ I must give you some- 
thing else.” Suddenly I saw the two dimples in her 
cheeks deepen, then I felt a pair of soft arms around my 
neck, and her fresh lips on mine. “ There ! ” said she, 
and quick as lightning drew her little hand over her 
mouth, “ do not forget me, and come home well.” 

But I stood there flushing crimson, and stared at her. 
And I sat in the coach as though in a dream, driving 
away in the laughing spring-time ; everywhere were 
blooming fruit-trees, young foliage, the song of birds, and 
intoxicating fragrance. And I leaned out of the carriage 
and gazed back at the city ; never had it seemed so dear, 
so lovely to me as now, when I knew what these old walls 
contained for me. 

I was never a man driven to extravagances by youthful 
enthusiasm ; there was always something which restrained 
me, even in the gayest society, so that I could not join in 
the others’ wild frolics. To be sure, I was not Master 
Urban’s dullest pupil ; I have passed the summer nights 
occasionally with others at a gay tavern, and joined in 
various escapades of my comrades, but when the fun was 


218 


My Cousin U rsula. 


most furious I would become quiet and turn away — I 
could not help it, this was my nature. 

So there I was happiest in my own den, alone. There 
hung over my bed a silhouette of my father, and a pretty 
water-color sketch of our house from the garden side ; in 
the foreground could be seen a few branches of the linden- 
tree, so that it seemed framed in by the gnarled limbs. 
Ursula had painted it. She had tried to paint two figures 
on the garden path, representing us brothers, but only 
Henry’s was complete — a tiny figure in a blue jacket and 
large hat. The other she had painted out, and had 
changed it to herself, because, as she said, she did not 
succeed with my likeness. 

I was happy when I wrote home or to Henry, and my 
joy was still greater when the postman brought me a letter 
from home. Besides, I was more industrious than is usual 
at the beginning of our course. I knew that father waited 
with the impatience of a weary, exhausted man, who longs 
for rest, to turn his practice over to me, so I seldom 
missed a lecture. I seemed old and pedantic to myself in 
comparison with the others. I asked myself how it would 
be to circle through the crowd to the sound of music, and 
with a pretty girl for partner, exhilarated with youth and 
wine. And in the next moment it seemed to me shallow 
and distasteful, and secretly I would press my hand to my 
heart, where rested a rustling paper, the only letter which 
Ursula had written me, on the first birthday I had ever 
spent away from my father’s house. A pair of deep dark 
eyes gazed at me, and I felt a pair of soft girlish lips on 
mine, and I was happy, happier than all my gay comrades. 

But nothing came of the autumn vacation, to which I 
had looked forward with such anticipated delight. Two 
days before the beginning of the holidays I was taken ill 
with fever, and when all hurried from the sultry old city, 


My Cousin Ursula. 


219 


I lay on a sick-bed in pain and despair, and only rose from 
it when the winter semester began. At home they had not 
known how ill I had been ; I had written something about 
a lame foot. It was not as easy to travel then as nowadays, 
and who could have come to nurse me ? Aunt Bertha 



was the only one, but her delicate health would have pre- 
vented her. And how could she have stayed in my little 
student’s room ? 

They had not written from home for a long time, and yet 
I thought of them every day, as I sat by the window in 
the autumn sunlight, a convalescent. Henry was surely at 


220 


My Cousin Ursula. 


home now. What accounts of his voyage he would give, 
and was he content with his chosen calling ? These ques- 
tions filled me with longing. I even thought of taking a 
few days’ leave, when a letter arrived. 

It was from father. “ How we have missed you, Willy,” 
he wrote, “ you can well guess, and how your foot spoiled 
our pleasure I need not tell you. Henry was here for two 
weeks, and nothing was lacking for our happiness but you. 
Thank God ! he is well, and content with his calling. A 
great load was taken from off my mind by this. The boy 
has grown large and tall, burned by wind and storm, and 
he has tales to tell of both good and evil. For the present 
he will remain in Hamburg to take his examination, and, 
if God pleases, you will meet in your father’s house at 
Christmas. 

“ He almost surprised you in Halle ; what upset his 
plans I really cannot tell. But when you come you will 
find on the desk in your room all sorts^of things which he 
brought you. We have curiosities in the house now : on 
my writing-desk stands a little Indian idol, grimacing ter- 
ribly. The ladies of our household wear genuine East 
Indian silk shawls, which he brought from Hong-Kong 
— Ursula’s interwoven with gold. All send their love to 
you, and hope that you will soon be well. At Christmas 
I hope to press you to my heart. 

“ Your loving father, 

“ H. Nordmann.” 

“ Drink a glass of the wine, sent you to-day, occasion- 
ally, to strengthen yourself,” was added in a postscript. 

Suddenly I felt out of temper, although I knew not why. 
I ascribed it to irritability from my long illness, and folded 
the letter with a sigh. As soon as I could, I set to work 
again — more than was good for me ; and so it happened 
that, when I stood before my mirror, a week before Christ- 


My Cousin Ursula . 


221 


mas, ready for travelling, a pale, sunken face gazed back at 
me, and Ursula’s words flashed to my mind : “You look 
as though you had been starved for seven months.” 

But it was delightful to drive toward home in the old 
yellow coach ; it snowed a little, and the brilliant cover- 
ing looked charmingly on the dark green branches of the 
fir-trees. There was a gay assemblage in the coach — 
students going home to celebrate the holidays — and we 
stopped at every tavern. I let them carry on, and watched 
with secret joy the travelling-bag in the rack above me ; 
there were various articles in there for the Christmas-tree, 
most of them for Ursula. For days I had wandered 
through the shops, and I never found anything that 
seemed good enough to place in the little hand, until one 
day I found it in the shape of a book — “ Hannah and the 
Little Chicken.” As I read the title I was suddenly re- 
minded of the little scene with the chickens under the 
linden-tree, and as I read the charming tale, I thought it a 
fitting present for her. “ My dear Ursula, for Christmas,” 
I wrote in it. 

They did not know that I was to arrive to-day. With 
winged steps I hurried through the well-known streets ; 
there lay the dear old house in the bright winter sunlight. 
I felt no weariness from my night’s journey, but my heart 
beat rapidly. In the open doorway stood a tall girlish 
form. 

“Why, Willy!” cried Ursula’s clear voice in amaze- 
ment, and then she held out both hands, and I gazed at 
the dark, beautiful face. 

“ Where do you come from to-day ? ” she cried. “ Oh, 
how glad your father will be ! He has spoken of nothing 
else for days. But,” and she stood still as she had 
turned toward the stairs, “ how you look, Willy! You 
were very ill— admit it.” And the dark eyes gazed at me 


222 


My Cousin Ursula. 


in sisterly compassion. “ That will grieve your father,” 
she added. 

“ But you, too, have changed, Ursula,” I replied. “ You 

have grown half a head taller, and so ” 

“Oh, never mind,” said she, her face slowly flushing 



delicately, “ do not keep your father waiting any longer ; 
go up-stairs quickly ; afterward you will come to mother’s 
room, will you not ? ” And she hurried down-stairs lightly 
as a bird. 

“One can see, Willy,” said father, after the heartiest 
greeting, “we lawyers have not chosen the healthiest 


My Cousin Ursula. 


223 


profession. You should have seen Henry, and what an 
appetite the boy has.” 

When I went down to Aunt Bertha’s room she said 
almost the same to me. “ But that is no matter, Willy,” 
she added consolingly. “You know what you have. I 
should not like to have such an uncertain element beneath 
me as Henry has ; were he my child, I should have 
worried myself to death long ago.” 

But Ursula sat quietly beside her sewing-table and 
embroidered a cap for father. Suddenly my eyes rested 
on a little shawl that she had arranged daintily over her 
shoulders ; it was white, interwoven with gold threads, 
and was very becoming to her brunette beauty. 

She noticed it. “ Henry brought me this,” said she, 
“ and this pink coral, and the shells on mother’s cupboard.” 
And as I came nearer I discovered a picture, hanging 
directly opposite Ursula’s chair, representing a ship under 
full sail, with flags floating, surrounded by dark green 
waves. “ That is the Sophie , with which Henry made his 
first voyage,” declared Ursula. “ I am only keeping the 
picture.” 

“ You hung it there ? ” I asked involuntarily. 

“Yes,” she replied. “I am very fond of it, Willy — it 
looks so gay, that ship ; it makes one’s heart swell to look 
at it.” 

Everywhere I looked were traces of Henry — even in the 
kitchen. “ Dear Willy, see what the boy bought me.” 
And Hannah radiantly showed me a couple of Chinese 
cups with grotesque figures upon them. “But it is no 
right life, Willy,” she added ; “ a man should stay where 
he is born : such a vagabond life is wrong. What kind of 
a husband does such a man make ? He will never find a 
wife ; the sea will be his bride. You will do better, my 
boy.” 


224 


My Cousin Ursula. 


Henry was not expected until Christmas Eve, and mean- 
while I helped Ursula in her preparations for the festive 
day, as far as an awkward student could. I fastened the 
tree to its supports, and all sorts of sugar trifles to gay 
ribbons, and I did errands for her and looked up tardy 
workmen. She now had the reins of housekeeping in her 
own hands, for Aunt Bertha was far from well, and for 
the greater part sat in her arm-chair by the window. The 
girl flitted about on her light feet unweariedly, and as she 
had formerly lent an unconscious tinge of poetry to her 
play, she now did the same with her every-day household 
duties, and with the same roguish show of her dimples. 
But she pleased me best when she sat by the window, 
reading after dinner. “This is necessary, Willy,” she said 
once excusingly, with a glance at her mother. “ I cannot 
give this up ; it does me good and refreshes me ; one for- 
gets one’s narrow routine of duties, and afterward feels 
all the happier when performing these duties.” 

“What are you reading, Ursula?” I asked once, when 
she seemed too much absorbed, and I had borne her 
silence like a martyr. 

“ Richter’s Travels by Land and Sea,” she replied, and 
lowered her eyes to the book again. And I had thought 
it a love-story. 

Two days before Christmas, as she went toward the 
storeroom with her bunch of keys, she motioned to me. 
“ Willy, come and see something beautiful.” 

I entered this large, stone-floored room ; everything 
there looked as usual, and still smelled of lavender, as it 
had when mother was alive, and I had crept after her 
as a little boy, for she had kept the Christmas pres- 
ents here. The girl opened a painted chest, and let me 
look in. 

“ What is that ? ” I asked, and looked at a white filmy 


My Cousin Ursula. 


225 


gown with pale blue ribbons, and on top of the gown a 
dainty wreath of roses. 



She looked at me, blushing and radiant. “ My ball- 
dress which mother gave me for Christmas.” 

“ Your ball-dress, Ursula ! I always thought that you 
were not fond of dancing.” 

She laughed. “ Oh, you do not know how delightful it 

15 



226 


My Cousin Ursula. 


is. Only think, I can dance without ever having learned, 
and even ‘very well,’ as Henry said, when he was here in 
the autumn. We and a few acquaintances went on a pic- 
nic to Biistrow, to the harvest-home, and danced under 
the oaks ; it was so lovely. You will come with us, will 
you not ? ” she asked then. “ The day after Christmas 
there is a ball at the ‘ Golden Crown ’ — I am so glad, and 
Henry too.” 

“ I cannot dance, Ursula.” 

“ Oh, do not be tiresome, Willy ! ” she cried. “ Who- 
ever is young can dance ; we will try it — it is inborn in 
every one to dance.” And she sprang past me with a few 
polka steps, and the bunch of keys clinked in time. 

I followed her, heard her cry, as she passed father’s 
door: “Uncle, are you warm enough? Your breakfast 
will be up in a moment.” Then I heard her steps on the 
stairs, and her voice rang out in the kitchen, and my mind 
Became still more confused with joy and timidity. 

I met Henry at the post-station the next day. It was 
almost dark when the heavy coach rolled through the 
stone gateway. My heart beat almost to bursting. How 
long it was since we had seen each other ! Then the 
vehicle stopped, and a tall, broad-shouldered man sprang 
out first of all ; by the last rays of light I saw a handsome, 
bearded face and two honest blue eyes. “ Henry ! ” I cried, 
and in the next moment we were clasped in each other’s 
arms. 

“ Boy, boy, how long it is since I have seen you ! But 
what a little fellow you have remained,” and he gazed at 
me attentively. “ All well on board ? ” 

“ Yes, Henry, except aunt. But come quickly. We 
will have a happy Christmas Eve to-night. Father did not 
come, because he had some business, and Ursula too.” 

“ First the ballast, Willy. Hey ! ” he cried to a 


My Cousin Ursula, 


227 


man, who ran up to offer his services. “ This is mine, 
and he pointed to his chest. “ I should like to have it 



soon ; there are things in it for this evening. To Mr. 
Nordmann’s, Long Street.” And then we walked down 


228 


My Cousin Ursula. 


the street together, and he spoke of this and that, and 
how he had wanted to run down to Halle to see me. 

“ What a pity, Henry ! Why did you not come ? ” 

“ Pure laziness, Willy. I was firmly anchored here. 
And such a tight box of a post-chaise — it is an accursed 
journey for one of us who has become accustomed to air.” 

“ So you do not regret becoming a sailor ? ” 

“ Thunder, my dear fellow, not for a moment ! ” he 
replied. “ Sitting still and studying in Hamburg will be 
hard enough for me now ; I wish it was behind me.” 

Then we were silent. He walked slowly, with the 
rolling gait peculiar to seamen. I gazed at him with 
pride. So this stately, broad-shouldered man was Henry ! 
And as we walked along side by side, the bells began to 
chime from all the towers of the city, as they had once 
during our childhood. And a day occurred to me when 
we had walked home hand in hand to this same peal of 
bells, from St. Mary’s Churchyard, a pair of little, mother- 
less boys. 

All was quiet in the hall. il Oho ! ” said Henry, and 
walked straight to the kitchen door. 

“ They will be up-stairs,” I ventured to interpose ; “ they 
did not hear the bell : we came quickly.” 

“ Oh, I will inspect the caboose,” said he, opening the 
door. 

“Henry!” cried Ursula, who stood at the spotless 
kitchen table. Just as she had called me “Willy!” — or 
was it different ? “ How nice ! ” And she held out both 

hands, but Henry bent down suddenly and tried to kiss her. 

“ What are you thinking of ? ” she asked, hastily draw- 
ing away. “ Have you forgotten all your manners among 
the mermaids ? Hurry, your father is waiting up-stairs, 
and later I will come and light the tree ; afterward you 
shall have something to eat, you must be hungry.” 


My Cousin Ursula . 


229 


I was vexed with him. “ You still tease her as you did 
when she was a child,” I said ; “ she is a grown girl : you 
will never be good friends if you go about it in that way.” 

He whistled softly to himself at my words of reproof, 
but he also smiled ; then with a few leaps he was up-stairs, 
in my father’s room, and clasped to his breast. 

So we were all once more together around the lighted 



tree in the drawing-room. I had secretly laid the book 
at Ursula’s place, with several other trifles : there was ad- 
miring, inspecting, teasing, and laughing, and Ursula played 
all kinds of tricks with her gifts. 

She gave me a tobacco pouch of green silk, adorned 
with gold beads, but first I had to unwrap it from a hun- 
dred wrappings. For Hannah, there was a box contain- 
ing a wadded silk hood, and the faithful old soul tried in 
vain to guess who could have given it to her. The shabby 


230 


My Cousin Ursula. 


slippers had disappeared from beside the stove in father’s 
room, and two beautifully embroidered new ones, harnessed 
like horses, with red ribbons, to a bootjack, paraded in 
their place. Aunt Bertha found a basket of eggs at her 
place, but when she gazed at them more closely, she found 
that they were merely balls of wool, in the shape of eggs. 
Only Henry received a note-book, and as he opened it, I 
saw his handsome face become serious ; and when I drew 
nearer, I saw our home daintily painted on the silk cover, 
and underneath the words : 

“Far from your native land, I at home think of thee.’’ 

But at the same moment, Ursula held a little brooch in 
her hand, in which was set a beautiful pearl. “ A pearl ! ” 
she cried joyfully ; “ is that a real pearl ? ” 

“ Oh, you should not give each other such expensive 
presents,” said Aunt Bertha reprovingly : she looked quite 
surprised. 

Henry laughed. “ Oh, I can bear that expense,” said he. 

As we sat at table, a. little hand clasped mine. “ Many 
thanks, Willy, for the beautiful book ; when you are gone, 
I will read it.” I nodded silently, and Ursula and Henry 
were even more quiet ; the mirth which we had anticipated 
was not forthcoming. 

The day after Christmas, in the afternoon, I sat down- 
stairs with my aunt and cousin. Henry had gone out to 
visit old friends. Tt was a cold, wet, disagreeable day. 
Ursula had ribbons and flowers around her, and was sew- 
ing little rosettes on a small pair of dancing-shoes. Two 
fresh roses, which Henry had given her, stood in a glass of 
water. But Aunt Bertha leaned back in her arm-chair, pale 
and sad. Had not Ursula smiled radiantly, the room 
would have been gloomy. 

“ Are you really so happy ?” I asked. She nodded, and 
clapped the soles of the slippers together. 


My Cousin Ursula. 


231 


“Well, I have ordered a carriage, Ursula,” said Henry, 
entering the room at this moment. 

“ Oh ! ” cried she joyfully. 

“ Do not spoil her so,” said Aunt Bertha, and again her 
face wore a sad look. 

In the evening the so-called bridal carriage stopped be- 
fore our door, and a light white form slipped in, and was 
received with laughter ; the light of Hannah’s lantern fell 
on two fresh girlish faces under wreaths of flowers, their 
eyes full - of expectancy, while a dignified matron called : 
“ I will take good care of Ursula, Hannah ! ” Henry and 
I walked silently after the carriage, we also being in gala 
attire. 

It was not two hours later that I found myself in the 
street again. My head was burning, but otherwise I was 
cold, and my heart ached — was it with fierce jealousy ? And 
then I called myself a fool. I had leaned against the wall 
for two hours and had followed her with my eyes as she 
danced past me, her cheeks rosy, wholly absorbed in her 
pleasure. I would have liked to tear her from her partner’s 
arms ; it seemed as though my saint were desecrated. 

First she had danced with Henry. He was my brother. 
I did not grudge him the dance, and yet 

I opened our door softly and was about to cross the hall, 
when Aunt Bertha’s door opened and she stood on the 
threshold. 

“ Willy,” said she wearily, like one mortally ill, “one 
moment, I have something to say to you.” 

As I entered the room she sank into a chair exhausted, 
and her face had grown deathly pale. 

“ You are ill, aunt,” said I, frightened. “ I will call 
Hannah.” 

“ No, not yet, Willy. Yes, I have been miserable for a 
long time, and to-day more than ever; I must tell you 


232 


My Cousin Ursula. 


something that makes me uneasy and will not let me die in 
peace — Ursula — Willy ” 

“ Aunt, she is in my father’s house,” said I consol- 
ingly. 



“ Your father is old and — what then ?” she asked. And 
after a while : “You are so calm, Willy, so sensible, al- 
though still so young — I lay the care for her future in your 


My Cousin Ursula. 


2 33 


hands.” And as I did not answer, she turned her dim eyes 
upon me. “ Have I then been mistaken, Willy ? ” 

“ No, aunt, you have not been mistaken,” said I firmly. 

She held out her hand to me. “ I thank you ! ” she 
whispered. “ It is worse with me than you think ; call 
Hannah — Ursula, my poor little Ursula ! ” 

I started up and rushed out to fetch the maid, and then 
out into the street in the rain and wind to summon the 
child to her mother’s death-bed. It was in the midst of a 
dance as I stood before her, and took her hand. She had 
grown pale as the gown she wore. “ Come, Ursula,” I 
said gently, “ I will take you home.” 

She followed me unresistingly ; she must have read from 
my face that something terrible had made me disturb her 
pleasure. I wrapped her in her cloak, drew the overshoes 
on her little feet, and laid the scarf over her hair. She 
asked no questions, she did not even speak ; I could 
scarcely keep up with her in the street. A few feet away 
from the house, she paused : “ My mother, Willy ; it is my 
mother.” 

And as I was silent, it seemed as though her strength 
failed, and she leaned heavily against me ; I picked her up 
and carried her across the threshold, and into her mother’s 
room. Hannah knelt before the arm-chair, sobbing ; now 
she made room for the daughter, and the hand of the 
dying woman was laid upon the rose-crowned head of 
the young girl. 

“Willy — Ursula!” said she, making a great effort. 
“ Willy — ” that was her last word. 

When Henry arrived, breathless, half an hour later, 
Ursula, still in her white gown, knelt beside the dead 
woman, her hands clinched in her dark hair, without a 
tear, without a complaint. 

Time passes even on such days, slowly and wearily in 


234 


My Cousin Ursula. 


the present, but quickly in remembrance of it. When I 
thought of home, I saw a slender figure in mourning garb 
walking in the garden, and a grave young face from which 
laughter seemed banished forever, and I plunged over 
head and ears into work, for my longing threatened to gain 
the upper hand. 

Since that night I had known that I loved Ursula ; and 
that I had promised the dying mother to protect her was a 
sweet and sacred permission to me to do so. 

I had been at home but once since that time. Meanwhile 
I had studied in Gottingen and Bonn ; now I returned an 
advocate, to plead in the courts of my native city. I knew 
that nothing of importance had occurred at home. Ursula 
and father lived there quietly. Henry was sailing on dis- 
tant seas, as captain ; he had not been home for a long 
time. 

This time father met me as I alighted from the post- 
chaise, and Ursula stood beside him, in her light summer 
gown. She had left off her mourning, but her face still 
wore a look of sadness. She walked ahead of father and 
me down the narrow street. “ She is lonely with such an 
old man as I,” said father ; “ now that you are home, it 
will be better, Willy.” 

But there was no change in the girl. As though all her 
joy in life had been killed that sad evening, she went about 
her work quietly ; only at times she seemed to awaken, 
and then her cheeks burned like fire, and her bosom 
heaved convulsively, but she made no complaint, and 
declared that nothing ailed her. 

It was on a sunny spring day that I saw her walking in 
the garden, and followed her half anxiously, half filled with 
rapture. She sat under the linden-tree when I found her, 
and when she saw me coming she moved to make room 
for me beside her, as she had done when a child. I 



i ,<M 




r.-s 

• 



i • 













My Cousin Ursula . 


237 


paused before her ; she had leaned her head against the 
trunk of the tree, and gazed wearily across the quiet lake, 
into the distance. 

“ Ursula,” I began, il what has become of your happi- 
ness ? ” 

She turned abruptly and looked at me. “ Do you not 
know ? ” she asked. 

“ Yes, Ursula. It was a hard blow for you when your 
mother was taken from you, but you are so young.” 

She bowed her head and was silent. Her face wore an 
unhappy look. “ I know,” she whispered, “ what mother 
meant in the hour of her death — you come to remind me 
of it, Willy.” 

“ Ursula ! ” She looked at me again, and I turned cold. 
“Be calm, Ursula,” said I, “and let us speak of something 
else.” But she buried her face in her hands and began to 
sob bitterly. 

“ I cannot help it,” she burst out. 

“ No, Ursula, you cannot help it,” I repeated. 

So we sat beside each other in silence for some time ; 
the sun set in a crimson glory, and then a deeply flushed 
girl’s face turned to me with sweet confusion. 

“ You are so kind and good, Willy, and he is your 
brother.” And before I could prevent it, she fell on her 
knees in front of me, and the eyes which gazed up at me 
were filled with their old sweet light. “ I have loved him, 
Willy, since my childhood. Have you never noticed it ? 
On the evening — the evening, you know, when mother 
died — he told me as we danced together, Willy ” 

I nodded. “ Stand up, Ursula ! ” said T, raising her. 
Then suddenly she lay on my breast, her slender arms 
around my neck, and her soft cheek rested against mine. 

“ Willy ! ” she sobbed. And again the crimson sunset 
glow lit up her brown hair, and I held her clasped in 


238 


My Cousin Ursula. 


my arms, as I had dreamed that I would once hold her 
that day — every day — even an hour before — and yet I was 
sad unto death. 

How gladly I would have wandered out of my father’s 
house— out of the city, at that time ! Those were hard 
days, tormenting days, that I passed in her nearness. I 
saw the rosy light return to her cheeks in expectation of 
her happiness ; I saw her dimpling smile, and in the 
morning I heard her step on the stairs, always at the time 
when the postman could be expected ; and I saw her glad 
expression when she hurried to her room after receiving a 
letter. But I also saw her turn pale if this letter did 
not arrive at the expected time, and on stormy evenings 
she leaned against the window-frame and listened to the 
raging storm. “ Willy, Willy, do you hear the wind ? ” 
and her pale face pained me as much as when, flushing 
rosily, she read aloud to me some portion of his letter and 
gave me a message from her Henry. On the calendar 
in the dining-room I found various signs ; the Christmas 
week she had marked with red, and I knew that she ex- 
pected him then, that then she would become his forever. 

“ God help them ! ” said Hannah, “ where will they find 
a pastor to marry them ? No good will come of it — no 
house, no home.” And the old soul slyly glanced sadly 
at me. She had probably noticed that I had been robbed 
of a dear hope. 

My father said nothing : he merely patted me on the 
shoulder and gazed in my eyes questioningly, when he 
received Henry’s letter asking for his father’s consent to 
his marriage with Ursula. But, in accordance with his 
duty and conscientious scruples, he talked gravely to the 
girl of this marriage. I do not know what he said, but I 
heard that she opposed all objections with a merry laugh. 

Christmas Eve, a young couple stood near the lighted 


My Cousin Ursula. 


239 


tree, and gazed at the burning candles ; his arm was 
around her, and her head rested on his shoulder, while the 
myrtle wreath still rested on her dark hair. They had 
been married that afternoon, in the church whose old 
tower could be seen from our garden, and father and I 
had stood near them at the altar. Hannah sat in the first 
pew, shedding bitter tears. They were to leave us the 
next morning very early ; the ship sailed on the 27th. 

We took leave of each other that evening ; the post left 
the city at four o’clock in the morning. Father, ill and 
weary, had retired to rest early. 

“ God bless you ! ” said I now, as the candles on the 
tree had burned down, and we had become silent. 
“ Good-by, Henry ! Good-by, Ursula ! ” 

Then once more in my life I felt Ursula’s arms around 
my neck ; she shed tears, and her lips pressed mine as they 
had before. But she did not say a word, and these were 
tears of happiness. 

“ Good-by, brother ! ” said Henry softly, and then I stood 
in my dark, lonely room, and gazed out across the snowy 
garden at the old linden. It seemed to me that it 
stretched out its bare branches despairingly in the cold 
winter air, as though to hold something which was trying 
to flee from it, and yet which the old tree had no power 
to grasp because it was fast rooted to its native soil. Un- 
consciously man transfers his moods to inanimate objects. 

Gradually the house became quiet. I heard Ursula’s 
door open softly, and Hannah going up-stairs, but I still 
stood at the window. It was late when I threw myself 
upon my bed, and when I awoke it was day, a bright, 
sunny, winter day, and the bells were ringing for service. 

“ They left another good-by for you,” said old Hannah, 
as she brought me my breakfast, and turned away with a 
sob. 


240 


My Cousin Ursula. 


So they went away man and wife, with happy confidence 
in a blissful future. She saw the palms waving on the 
other side of the world, and on the frail bark, in the wind 
and storm, she laughed, because her Henry stood on the 
commander’s deck. They passed happy days between 
water and sky, the two, so her letters reported. 

But then he remained away a long, long time ; it was to 



be his last voyage before he settled down in the pretty 
little house at Cuxhafen — he never returned. 

And one day a still beautiful woman, in widow’s dress, 
entered my solitary house. 

“ Willy,” said she, laying the hand of a slender boy, with 
Henry’s blond curls and his mother’s dark eyes, in mine, 
‘‘ he has no father now, and I do not want to send him 
among strangers. Will you not keep him here with you ? ” 

“ And you, too, Ursula,” said I. “Come back to the 
old home ; it is yours and mine.” 


My Cousin Ursula. 


241 


She shook her head. “ Let me stay there. I can see 
the ocean from my window ; I have been so fond of it. 

So she sat by her room window in the little house in 
Cuxhafen for a long time. I visited her once, and then I 



knew why Ursula lived here ; there was a peculiar charm 
to the place. When she died, Willy brought me a last 
greeting from her, and a little book, “ Hannah and the 
Little Chicken.” 

This was Ursula, the dream of my youth. 

16 


My Cousin Ursula. 


242 


I have grown old, have experienced much joy and 
misery, as every one does on this earth, but I remained 
solitary. Yes, it was very firmly rooted, this first love. 

When my grief for the dead became milder, my youth 
was gone. But this lock of hair — this long, fine lock of 
woman’s hair — I will put back in the old book ; the boy 
shall have it when he returns from the East Indies, for, of 
course, he too is a sailor. 

The last drops in the glass I drink to you, Henry, and 
you, Ursula, who have come to visit the lonely man on this 
Christmas Eve. That is a beautiful saying which compares 
memory to a paradise from which no one can drive us. 




VI. 

DANGEROUS GROUND. 


So here I am again in a low room of the old inn of the 
“ Red Trout,” the first hotel of the little Thuringian town; 
and I gaze down the deserted, well-known street, with its 
wretched paving and rows of old, one-storied houses, 
which have received a fresh coat of paint in honor of the 
Whitsuntide festivities. I see the fountain with its three 
perpetually flowing streams of crystal-clear water ; the little 
iron knight on the top of the plain pillar from which these 
streams issue is St. Martin, the special patron saint of the 
little town. Nothing is changed here, and the linden-tree 
in front of the inn is covered with just such young green 
leaves to-day as when I alighted from the extra post, and 
beneath the branches of the venerable tree set foot for 
the first time upon Borndorf soil. 

At each side of the massive front door I noticed May- 
poles, decked with pink streamers, and also, as at that 
time, fastened upon the time-blackened door a red 
theatre poster. Had not, instead of the old, white-haired 
innkeeper, a fresh young man received me with new- 
fashioned politeness, I could have fancied that it was still 
Whitsun-eve of the year 1867, which has long, long ago 
been forgotten by most people, but not by me, and not 
by one other. 


244 


Dangerous Ground \ 


I turn, for the rosy-cheeked maid has entered the room, 
and asks whether madame wishes anything — perhaps some 
coffee, and the cake has just come from the bakery. 

“ No, I thank you. But you may take this note to the 
parsonage for me, will you, child ? As soon as possible. 
Tell the pastor’s wife not to come here. I am more active 
than she, and will only make a few changes in my dress, 
and then come. I only send the note so as not to startle 
her.” 

The pretty girl stares at me with some confusion as she 
takes the note from my hand. “Madame means Mrs. 
Steinkopf ? ” she then asks. 

“Yes, of course. But please give me back the note ; I 
have changed ray mind. Simply ask Miss Martha to come 
here if she has time.” 

“ A Miss ? ” asks the girl. 

“Yes, Miss Steinkopf.” 

“There is no young lady at the parsonage.” 

“ What do you say ? You are probably not a native of 
Borndorf ?” 

“ No, madame ; but I have been at service here in the 
‘ Trout’ for a year, and know every one in Borndorf. No, 
there is no young lady at the parsonage.” 

“ Pray send the host to me,” I say vexedly, and she dis- 
appears. 

The extremely polite young man, who wears his greasy 
yellow hair arranged like the head-waiter of some first- 
class Berlin hotel, which does not seem at all suited to the 
little “Red Trout” inn, hurries into the room, and asks 
how he can serve the “ gracious lady.” 

“ I cannot make myself understood by your maid,” I 
say. “ I wish a message sent to the parsonage, asking 
Miss Martha Steinkopf to come to see me as soon as pos- 
sible.” 


Dangerous Ground. 


245 


“ The gracious lady’s command is unfortunately impos- 
sible to execute — for — h’m ” 

“ Is the young lady married ? ” I ask in astonishment. 

“The gracious lady must pardon me — h’m — is the 
gracious lady related to the pastor ? Not ? Or intimately 
acquainted ? — h’m ” 

“ But, good heavens, pray speak ! ” I cry irritably. “ Is 
she dead ? No ? Well, no one can disappear in this little 
town, and she is quite too large to have been stolen by 
gypsies.” 

“ Pardon me, gracious lady ; Miss Martha Steinkopf — 
but that is really not her name — a year or so ago — ran 
away with — simply ran away.” 

I motion to him to be silent. “ Thank you, sir ; I will 
learn particulars at the parsonage myself. Thanks ! ” 

“ And Mrs. Steinkopf — will the gracious lady permit me 
to make one more remark ? — has fallen into a state of 
melancholia over it. She can scarcely speak a word, 
and ” 

“ Thank you ! ” I interrupted him decidedly. “ Send 
me some coffee.” 

He stared at me in surprise and left the room. 

All the sunshine suddenly has left the room, and the air is 
close and oppressive — or does it only seem so ? I sit in the 
arm-chair and stare at the green carpet, horrified at what I 
have heard, but can come to no conclusion. The portraits 
over the sofa, of the reigning prince and his wife, dance 
before my eyes, and old Kaiser Wilhelm shakes his head. 
Good heavens ! I cannot comprehend it — my Elizabeth a 
victim to melancholia ! The quiet, gentle creature, the 
dear, faithful friend of my girlhood ! And the child a run- 
away ! 

I had not seen Elizabeth for four years. At that time 
she had been at a little Holstein summer resort on our 


246 


Dangerous Ground. 


coast, with her husband and child, and what a charming 
girl this child had grown into ! I had passed many happy 
hours with them ; later, letters had passed between us 
occasionally, but then I was negligent ; long journeys had 
prevented me from resuming my old correspondence, 
which had become so dear to me. I had indeed written 
once, and received no answer, and so all outward signs of 
our old friendship had ceased. But when I had settled 
again in Rachnitz, one day the thought of surprising Eliza- 
beth, of passing Whitsuntide in her house once more, as 
formerly I had so often done, presented itself to my 
mind so alluringly that I resolved to carry it out — and 
now? 

One tear after another fell from my eyes ; but one thing 
was clear to me, I could not meet her thus. I would 
leave the place to-morrow, after a talk with her husband, 
whom I resolved to ask to call upon me as soon as service 
was over, that I might learn something more definite. 

Meanwhile the sky had become overcast, and distant 
mutterings of thunder announced a storm. Soon it began 
to rain, or more than that, it poured in torrents. Finally 
the maid brings me my coffee, together with the weekly 
paper. There are moments when one does not realize 
violent shocks, when one can act as though nothing terrible 
had happened. I calmly drink my cup of coffee, and 
sitting by the window, I read in the paper : 

Sunday, June 5th, 

At the Court Theatre of Borndorf, 

Grand Representation for the Benefit of the 
Director of the Theatre, Mr. Wm. Kranowsky. 

Faust : 

A Tragedy. 

Strange ! When I was here for the first time on that 
May day in 1867, “Faust” was also given, I think, and I 


Dangerous Ground . 


2 47 


am almost stunned by the flood of recollections which 
rushes upon me. The rain falls incessantly, the maid has 
come into the room again, and I stare out at the storm. 

“ Does madame wish theatre tickets ? To-morrow is the 
director’s benefit. Pray do, madame,” says the girl. “I 
think the troupe have fared badly. One of them sits and 
cries continually ; since she has come here she has not 
once left her room except one evening. She is always up 
there,” she pointed towards the ceiling ; “ and yesterday 
she screamed so that I could hear her down-stairs, and 
when I went up-stairs, she was at the director’s feet, 
begging him to do something, and he was angry, oh, so 
angry ! ” 

All this rings in my ears, but I scarcely understand it. 
I take out six marks and receive a number of red bills for 
them. The girl thanks me as though I had given her 
something, and leaves the room. I take up the paper 
again. The name of the actress is not printed after 
“Margaret,” in place of it are three stars. At the foot of 
the bill is printed : “ Margaret ; Miss Korinska, engaged 
at the royal theatre, and with this troupe for a short time 
only.” 

I must have heard the name Korinska ! Then I realize 
that I am staring up at the ceiling ; up there, yes, I think 

it was the very room where years ago Exerting all my 

powers I strive to recall clearly the events of that time, 
which are so confused with the present ; and as I gaze out 
into the twilight and listen to the falling rain, while the 
room is filled with delicious fragrance of flowers, the past 
suddenly rises clearly before me. 

Whitsuntide, 1867. At last I was able to accept Eliza- 
beth’s invitation. I did so all the more gladly since I 
knew that she needed comforting and diverting as much 
as fresh air and nourishment. Our acquaintance dated 


248 


Dangerous Ground. 


from our boarding-school days ; she, a quiet, tender 
nature, became tenderly attached to the wild girl from the 
North-Sea region. Our views were as different as our 
natures. She inclined to sentimentality, easily wounded, 
coming of a very pious family, knew no higher ambition 
than to become a deaconess, if possible of a child’s hospi- 
tal, for she loved children dearly, especially those who 
were delicate, and must always be carefully guarded and 
tended ; while my ambition was to marry the owner of 
some great estate. I thought it would be delightful to be 
at the head of a fine house, to rule over maids and servants, 
to govern my wild children, and ride over the fields at 
my husband’s side, inspecting the state of the crops, which 
would always be excellent, for he must be an excellent 
manager of his estate. 

Elizabeth was from the Rhine country, and according 
to my ideas spoke with such a delightful accent that I lis- 
tened to her with rapture. Sometimes she laughed gently 
at my honest Holstein Plattdeutsch, but only until I read 
and translated to her something by Klaus Groth — I think 
it was the touching poem “Min Jehann.” 

When we were confirmed and graduated from the 
school came our parting. She went back to the house- 
hold of numerous sisters in Bonn — her father was a pen- 
sioned officer of high rank — I to the seclusion of our 
estate. We corresponded diligently. Then came the news 
— her letter had crossed with mine containing the an- 
nouncement of my engagement — that she had entered a 
sisterhood in Berlin, and felt very happy in her calling. 
She came to my wedding, and stood among the gayly 
dressed bridesmaids in the church, in the plain black 
gown which marked her calling. The dear face, framed 
in the deaconess cap, wore such an angelic look of peace 
that I was almost ashamed of my earthly happiness. 


Dangerous Ground. 


249 


“ Tell me, my dear,” I asked her, as she embraced me 
tenderly and congratulated me, “ are you then happy and 
contented ever with your lot ? ” 

“ Dear Annie, do not ask me, you must see it,” was 
her answer. “ I am very happy, very, and I wish you all 
the happiness that God alone can give.” 

These were her last words for a long time : her calm 
face gave me one more mild, pleasant smile from among 
the crowd of guests, as I drove from my father’s house at 
my husband’s side, amid music, hurrahs and brightly burn- 
ing torches, to rule as mistress in the lofty apartments of 
Castle Rachnitz. 

When, two years later, I sat alone in the old castle, 
a broken-hearted widow, among many, many other letters, 
which were meant to comfort and yet did not, came one 
from Elizabeth. It was the only one of them all which 
made me weep, for as yet I had not shed a tear. She 
wrote that she could all the more fully realize my great 
loss, since she too now loved with all her heart a man to 
whom she was soon to be married. 

“ My love for him brings me nearer to you than ever, 
Anna,” she said among other things. “ Could I but con- 
sole you as his words would ! As soon as we are settled 
in our simple assistant rector’s house, you must come. 
Anna, promise me.” 

But years passed before I made this visit. I must learn 
to control my grief. I was dragged about the world ; and 
perhaps it was then that the foundations were laid for the 
nomadic life which to this day I have preferred to live, 
for I have never found rest since my husband’s death. In 
summer I lived at Rachnitz, which was left to me ; in win- 
ter I went with a companion, now to Florence, now Rome, 
London or Paris ; yes, even St. Petersburg was no more 
secure from me than Constantinople or Athens. Never- 


25 ° 


Dangerous Ground. 


theless I was familiar with the details of Elizabeth’s life. 
I knew that her husband had meanwhile been promoted 
from assistant to pastor, that they had moved into the 
venerable parsonage in Borndorf, to the ringing of bells 
and over a path strewn with roses, and that two little 
blond-haired children, the pride and joy of my saintly 
Elizabeth, played in the old-fashioned rooms. 

Then I arrived in Rachnitz two days before Whitsun- 
day from the Italian lakes. I think my trunks were not 
yet unpacked. I had just listened to the overseer’s reports 
of the crops, and was about to take a long nap in my cool 
boudoir, when a maid brought me a letter which had 
arrived in the morning. 

“ My dear madame,” the letter began, in a man’s firm 
handwriting. “ As my poor Elizabeth is not yet equal to 
writing, she has commissioned me — we suppose that you 
are at home again — to tell you that in the time between 
the 15th and 25th of December, we lost our three dear 
children of diphtheria. God’s hand has dealt heavily with 
us. He alone knows why He has taken these our treasures 
to Himself again ” 

I read no further. I put the letter in the pocket of my 
travelling-gown, bade farewell to my housekeeper and ser- 
vants, telling them that I was obliged to leave home again, 
wished my companion a pleasant vacation and, in the course 
of half an hour, after providing myself with a few neces- 
saries, drove to the nearest railway station, where I was 
fortunate enough to catch the express train, which bore me 
away in the same direction from which I had come that 
morning. 

Saturday noon I stood before the post station of the little 
city, where the train had deposited me, so that there was 
nothing left for me to do but to travel by extra post if I 
would reach Borndorf that day. This journey and every- 


Dangerous Ground. 


2 5 l 


thing that occurred during the next few days has remained 
imprinted upon my memory most distinctly, even to the 
smallest details. The road led through magnificent 
forests of pine, interspersed with beech trees in their fresh 
spring green foliage, sloping gently up hill ; the sun shone 
through the branches of the trees, the air was fragrant after 
a warm rain, and the sky slightly overcast. All nature 
seemed jubilant over the approaching festival, and the 
postilion on the box seemed looking forward with delight 
to a dance, for he blew upon his horn, gayly and with ter- 
ribly false intonation, this one song continually : 

“Oh ! thou hast the loveliest eyes, love ” 

I have never been able to disturb any one’s happiness 
through my own melancholy mood, but to-day it was hard 
for me to listen to this music. But when the gay music at 
the approach of the cool afternoon changed to a melan- 
choly refrain which actually moved me to tears I begged 
the man to cease. The notes were still ringing in my ears 
when my carriage rolled over the pavement of the little 
town, smelling of cake and May flowers, and stopped before 
the doors of the “ Red Trout.” 

I scarcely allowed myself time to look at the room which 
the old innkeeper wished to show me. I asked for the 
parsonage of St. Martin’s, and was directed to a street 
which ascended steeply, and was bathed in the last rays of 
the setting sun. The girls scouring and sweeping before the 
house doors, the young fellows fastening the Maypoles be- 
side the stone bench, all ceased their occupations and lis- 
tened for a moment to the mighty tongues of the bells ; the 
sounds so near by almost deafened me. Only the children 
continued their noisy play in anticipation of the joys of the 
morrow’s festivities. I held one of the prettiest little girls 
fast by her pigtail. 


2 5 2 


Dangerous Ground. 


“Come,” said I coaxingly, “show me the way to the 
parsonage.” The dear little thing sprang on ahead of me, 
and in a few minutes I reached the house, lying opposite 
the church. A high, dark-brown door with a shining brass 
knocker, the stone window and door settings beautifully 
carved with figures from Bible history, as well as the slop- 
ing upper story of framework with the tiny balcony also 
sloping, proclaimed the great age of the house. 

I entered a huge hall, the knocker rang loudly through 
the room, and almost immediately an old woman appeared, 
coming from the kitchen. 

“ Mrs. Steinkopf has gone to the churchyard,” she 
replied to my questions, “and Mr. Steinkopf is in the 
garden, studying his sermon for to-morrow.” 

As I did not wish to disturb the pastor, the old woman 
showed me into Elizabeth’s room. I suddenly felt quite 
oppressed ; whether it was the strong scent of elder which 
came from a large vase filled with blossoms, or the de- 
scending twilight in the unfamiliar room, or the little worn 
articles of clothing which lay spread out on a table close 
in front of me, and which gave out that odor peculiar to 
children’s things which have long been unopened — I do 
not know. Those little things, evidently but recently 
laid here, seemed quite uncanny to me ; I could plainly 
see the spots on a shabby pair of velvet trousers, the faded 
blue ribbons of a baby’s dress, and the torn pinafore with 
an ink spot ; then near by me playthings, broken animals, 
dolls, etc. In addition was the scent of faded cypress 
wreaths, mingled with that of fresh flowers, which a hand 
had laid among the playthings, arranged as a child would 
in playing “ cook.” The firm yellow centre of the syringa 
lay upon a tiny plate as butter, and the white petals 
floated in a tureen of water as soup. 

I fairly shuddered. Incapable of longer bearing the 


Dangerous Ground. 


2 53 


sight, I went to the window and opened it, while I gazed 
down the quiet street along which Elizabeth would come. 

She must be very ill, I said to myself, very ill ! And 
pity came over me with overwhelming force. I thought I 
could see the dear little flaxen heads peering out of the 
corners of the ghostly room, rosy, smiling, and their little 
faces rigid in death, surrounded with flowers ; faces which 
no prayers, however ardent, could make smile again. 
God had deprived me of much. I had wept and repined, 
but better never to possess a child than to be forced, 
despite all one’s prayers and struggles, to yield it up, pow- 
erless against the gloomy tyrant, although one would give 
her very heart’s blood to keep the sweet life. It must be 
almost superhuman misery. Suddenly a feeling of terror 
amid these surroundings overcame me. I was about to 
flee to the kitchen when I saw the black figure of a woman 
coming down the street in the twilight. 

Thank God, it is Elizabeth. 

She came into the room at once, the girl had told her of 
a “ stranger.” 

“ Anna,” said her voice. “ Yes, I knew at once that it 
was you — but please come out, that is not for you — pray 
forgive me, Katharine did not suspect ” 

And in the sitting-room she kissed me, and when she 
saw my pale face she comforted me in her old, sweet 
voice. 

“ Poor, dear Annie, you cannot understand that, and 
the things are only there for me.” And once more she 
threw her arms around my neck and began to sob, but 
soon controlled herself. 

“Let us not speak of it at all,” she whispered, and her 
dear eyes had a far-away look. “ Do you hear, I beg you 
not to speak of it, for I cannot bear it.” 

And with a self-control which astonished me she went 


254 


Dangerous Ground. 


about the duties of a hostess whom a dear guest has sur- 
prised ; but she was changed, her movements were forced, 
her eyes unsteady, and when spoken to she started. 

The supper table was laid in the summer-house, and 
for the first time I saw Elizabeth’s husband. He was a 
tall, grave, sad-looking man, his hair very gray at the 
temples, his mouth wearing a mild expression. He was 
as tender and careful of his wife as of a child. He 
thanked me for coming, but wholly avoided mentioning 
the cause. Elizabeth scarcely uttered a word. Finally I 
started conversation by talking of my travels, and found 
that he was well acquainted with Rome ; he had passed 
many winters there as travelling companion to the 
princes. 

We sat there in the darkness until perhaps ten o’clock, 
enjoying the delightful coolness of the May night, when 
the cook’s voice called from the parsonage : “ Mrs. Stein- 
kopf ! ” 

Elizabeth rose at once and went to the house. I sat 
alone with her husband, whose head was turned in the 
direction in which his wife had disappeared. 

“ She has changed greatly, has she not ? ” he asked. 

“Yes ! ” said I, checking my tears. 

“ A sore affliction has befallen us,” he continued ; “ but 
worse is threatening me if Elizabeth’s condition remains the 
same. Something must happen to rouse her from this con- 
dition of utter apathy ; the doctor told me it was the high- 
est time. She acts so strangely. She fulfils her house- 
hold duties quietly, and as excellently as ever, but she never 
says a word about her lost darlings. She fairly avoids all 
common recollections with me, and carries on a most child- 
ish play with her keepsakes of them. Now, I know very well, 
now she is sitting among all the little things which belonged to 
the children, and fans the flame of her grief to the utmost. 


Dangerous Ground. 


2 55 


It is just as though she had discovered herself on the verge of 
a mortal sin when she is sometimes unconsciously led to 
pay life its due. Recently, for instance, I dragged her 
to church with me, when a celebrated organist gave a con- 
cert on our magnificent old organ. She loves music. I 
saw that she forgot her grief while listening to those tones ; 
something of the sweet, gentle expression which I so love 
in her, appeared on her face, and then ” — He paused — 
“ I had turned my eyes from her for but an instant,” he 
continued, “ when I heard, in the middle of a beautiful pas- 
sage, the sharp bang of the door of the church, and she 

was gone. I hurried after her, and found her here in her 
room, her face buried in the dress of our youngest, her 
limbs trembling, and with hot tears bewailing that she 
could have forgotten even for a moment.” 

“But,” I asked, deeply touched, “ what has become of 
Elizabeth’s submission to the will of God ? ” 

For a while he was silent. “ Madame Anna,” he began 
at length, “ what human being has not at some time doubted 
the kindness and goodness of God ? How many are capa- 
ble, in the face of such trials, of saying, * Thy will be 
done, Lord, I will not repine ’ ? It is so human to ask, 

‘ Why didst Thou give only to take away ? ’ Did you not 
ask something similar when you stood beside the coffin of 
your husband, who was taken from you in all the pride of 
youth ? ” 

“Yes,” I confessed honestly. 

“ I have told her that she is richer than many. She has 
dear brothers and sisters ; one of them, her youngest brother, 
is coming here in June; he is to attend the gymnasium here. 
She has many friends in the city, whom she has won by her 
dear childlike manner ; we realized it fully in the days of our 
sorrow ; and she has one besides,” he added, softly. 

He was touchingly modest as he said this last. 


25 6 


Dangerous Ground. 


He broke off, for her dark figure came towards us just at 
this moment. She had a remarkably light tread; scarcely 
a pebble crunched under her feet. 

“ Your room is ready, Anna,” she said. 

“That is very sweet of you, Elizabeth,” I replied ; “but 
I am obliged to return to the inn to get my things, and I 
should love to have you come with me — I would prefer 
that you both come.” 

“ I beg you to excuse me ; but, Hermann, you will go, will 
you not ? ” 

He was ready, and soon we walked down the street to- 
gether. The night was a beautiful one; there was a scent 
of fresh green leaves and flowers, and wonderful moonlight 
lay over the town and the mountains beyond, like a silvery 
veil; the fountains plashed softly, and a clear girlish voice 
was singing somewhere near by. 

Under the linden tree before my inn, all the benches 
were full, and the tops of the beer mugs clapped briskly. 
A band of students, their gay-colored caps visible in the 
lamp-light, sang their songs — a jovial company. I also 
noticed two young women among them, and I remember 
how I turned to look at one of them again ; she was a 
slender young woman, with a crown of ash-blonde hair ; 
she leaned against the trunk of the tree with folded arms, 
her whole face seemed to laugh, her red lips and great dark 
eyes. The handsome student near her must have paid her 
some fine compliment as he drank her health. 

I stood still. Beauty, and such really surprising beauty, 
has always excited my admiration. She noticed my aston- 
ishment, for her great black eyes suddenly flashed threat- 
eningly at me, and her mouth took on a scornful expres- 
sion. Then she took a glass from the table and drank 
slowly ; her eyes were resting upon the student again. 

They began to sing, while I, turning myself away from 


Dangerous Ground. 


2 57 


the charming picture with difficulty, entered the house. 
The pastor had long since gone into the empty sitting- 
room ; he would wait there for me, he had said. 

I looked for him, and promised to come back as soon as 
possible ; then I began to gather my things together up- 
stairs, for I had unpacked somewhat, with the assistance of 
the maid. 

“ Tell me,” I said to the girl, “ does the beautiful 
blonde woman live here in the house — the one standing 
down there among the students ? She is probably one of 
the actresses ? ” 

“Oh — she! ” said the girl scornfully. “ I do not under- 
stand how the master can keep those people in the house. 
Her husband behaves quite respectably, but she — she 
thinks because she is the wife of the manager that she has 
only to command ; and besides, she does not get along with 
her husband, it is a cat and dog life. Madame may be 
glad that she is going away, for the company have rooms 
up-stairs, and the noise is terrible ; sometimes one thinks 
her husband will kill her on the spot.” 

As though the truth of this speech were to be demon- 
strated at once, steps suddenly flew down the corridor 
outside, a man’s heavy tread hurrying after them, and 
almost immediately there was a woman’s cry of terror, 
followed by a heavy fall. God knows I have never tried 
to interfere in my fellowmen’s quarrels, but here I had 
no choice, it seemed as though the young woman’s beauty 
had bewitched me. I ran across the hall and up the stairs ; 
down-stairs nothing had been heard, it was evident, for no 
one came, and now all was silence. I was about to return 
when I discovered by the flickering light of a small oil 
lamp, which served to illuminate the hall, a child, close 
before me, on the lowest step. 

It sat there in its little shirt, two big tears on its fat 


2 5 8 


Dangerous Ground 


cheeks, and yet its little red mouth and a pair of magnifi- 
cent black eyes laughed up at me. The little thing was per- 
haps three years and a half old, and I stared at it as though 
it were a wonder. I have seen many charming children ; in 
Spain, little beings such as Murillo painted ; blonde Eng- 
lish faces with something celestial about them, and once 
a gypsy child so beautiful that I would gladly have pur- 
chased it from its parents; but I had never yet seen any 
child as lovely as the one here before me. 

“ Papa is striking my mamma,” it said with a smile, and 
at that moment leaned closer to me, for a man’s voice 
began violently inside the room : 

“ I beg just one thing of you, Tosca; do not excite me 
more by speaking. You know I love you madly, but 
when you rouse me to jealousy I do not know what I am 
about. I have had enough recently ; for the child’s sake 
cease such actions ; I cannot endure it ” 

The last words sounded quite gentle. 

There may have been some reply, although I heard 
nothing, for now the man pleaded, with a sob : “ Tosca, 
you will not do that — you will not leave me ; you can- 
not ! ” 

I stood there quite at a loss. “ Go to your mother, little 
one ! ” I said coaxingly. “You will take cold here ; it is 
too chilly.” I tried to unclasp the little arms to free my- 
self, but then a piteous cry arose. In an instant the door 
was opened, and the woman stood before me. Her hair 
hung in confusion about her white face, which was deeply 
flushed on the left side, and the dainty lace in one sleeve 
seemed torn. 

“I bring you your little one, madame,” said I, com- 
posedly. “ It sat on the stairs, and might easily have 
fallen.” 

“Thank you, she will not fall,” was the answer, “and 


Dangerous Ground. 


2 59 


she knows our door.” And catching up the child, with a 
short “ Do not trouble yourself further,” she disappeared 
into her room, banging the door behind her. 

I excused my long delay to the pastor, whom I found 
awaiting me in the same place in the sitting-room ; and, ac- 
companied by the waiter, we set out on our return. The 
students had left the benches for the house, for the night 
watchman had interrupted their song, on account of the 
citizens. Only one still stood outside, staring up at a 
couple of lighted windows in the top story as though be- 
witched. 

I slept but little that night ; the nightingales sang almost 
too loudly in the garden, and I was over-tired by the long 
railway journeys of the last five days. I still thought of the 
two couples of whose lives I had had a glimpse that even- 
ing : the one in peaceful, safe circumstances, the other on 
dangerous ground, tossed about like a ship in a storm, to- 
day here, to-morrow there, and both unhappy. They were 
no Whitsuntide thoughts which occupied my mind, I con- 
fess frankly ; life often draws us violently away from what 
we should do ; there is nothing more obstinate than one’s 
thoughts, they will not be diverted from the object they 
centre about, and the more one seeks to master them, the 
more unruly are they. Only toward morning did I fall 
asleep, and — oh, disgrace ! — overslept the service. I think 
it was about eleven o’clock when I awoke, to find Elizabeth 
standing near me in her deep mourning, and gazing at me 
anxiously. 

“ Why did you not wake me ? ” I asked. 

“ Be glad that you can sleep, Anna ; what have you 
missed ? ” 

“ Oh, I have missed church, and my morning devotions, 
and that, too, in a parsonage.” 

She made no answer. As in our girlhood days, she 


260 


Dangerous Ground. 


began to help me dress, and I let her. She combed out 
my hair with the same light hand. 

“ Yes, Lieschen,” I sighed, “ I have many gray hairs. 
Child, we are really still young ; what are thirty years ? ” 

She shook her brown head. “ Oh, I have grown so old 
since then, Anna.” 

“Yes, you act so ; but it is wrong, Elizabeth.” 

“ Not in years, but here ! ” She pointed to her heart. 

“ My sweet child, do you no longer love your husband a 
little bit ? ” 

She stared at me anxiously. “We no longer understand 
each other, Anna ; he can no longer understand me. But 
speak no more of it, speak no more ” 

I held her fast. “ Yes, let us speak just of that ! If you 
have a spark of friendship left for me, answer me now. 
Why do you think that you no longer understand each 
other, Elizabeth ? ” 

“ He scarcely misses the children ! ” she burst out. 
“ He did not love them, he only tolerated them ; they dis- 
turbed him ” 

“ For heaven’s sake, Elizabeth, how unjust your grief 
makes you ! ” I cried, horrified. 

“ No, Anna, no — not unjust ; it is, alas ! the truth.” 

“ Elizabeth, pray tell me from what you judge that.” 

She hesitated for a while, then she began slowly, her voice 
hoarse : “ The two youngest had been buried the day be- 
fore, but the boy was still healthy. I had sent him into 
the garden, so that he might get as much fresh air as pos- 
sible, and escape the contagion in the house. He was an 
unusually active child. I stood by the kitchen window, 
and watched him racing over the lawn as though mad. 
This was usually forbidden the children, but I did not 
think of that then. I had folded my hands and prayed 
with all my heart : ‘ Dear God, leave me my only child ; 


Dangerous Ground. 


261 


leave him to me ! ’ You know Hermann’s study looks out 
on the garden. I believe he was working ; he could work, 
perhaps he had to — he had knocked on the window-pane 
several times, then he called out: ‘John, be quiet, this 
moment. Do you hear ? ’ 

“ I do not know what possessed the child, usually so 
obedient. Was it an unconscious farewell of his dear young 
life — was it already fever coursing through his veins ? He 
stood still for a few seconds, then rushed up to the swing, 
and began to swing himself so violently that I hurried out to 
quiet him, fearing that he would fall out, for he was swing- 
ing so high in the air. As he saw me coming across the 
lawn, he cried : ‘ Hurrah, mamma, now I am flying up to 
heaven — so high, so high ! ’ ‘ John ! ’ I cried anxiously, but 
Hermann stood behind me ; he grasped first the rope of the 
swing, then the child. I can still see the great blue eyes 
under the fur cap. They had filled with tears, and the little 
face wore a frightened look. 

“‘Hermann,’ I cried, ‘do not strike him, do not strike 
him to-day ! ’ But it was too late — the punished child — 
the blows had not been hard — suddenly lay in my arms as 
though unconscious. I knelt down on the damp grass with 
him, and finally he said softly, * Mamma, I have such a 
headache ; ’ and then he clutched at his little throat, and 
then” — Elizabeth had buried her face in her hands, and 
turned her back to me — “ then he became ill, and ” 

The rest of her speech was swallowed up in a cry, so 
mournful and heart-broken, that I understood all, and, tak- 
ing her in my arms, wept with her, as she sobbed on my 
breast as though beside herself. 

“ Elizabeth,” I said at length, “ you know that who 
loves his child chastises it. He only wished to punish him 
for his little naughtiness. See ” 

“ He — he told me that,” she burst out, “but you do not 


262 


Dangerous Ground. 


know how it was. That change in the dear little face, 
those great anxious eyes — and what had he done, the little 
fellow ? He had been wild, as boys are. You cannot know 
how children’s eyes gaze at one, Anna, when they are 
unjustly punished — so questioningly, so very sadly. His 
last feeling on earth was pain, which was inflicted upon him 
because he laughed and rejoiced. Since then I cannot bear 
to hear a child cry. I am almost out of my senses when 
one is struck, and I pushed Hermann’s hand away from 
the little corpse, almost beside myself. I know I am 
changed, but it was not my own doing.” 

So she sobbed on, as though all her fearful pain burst its 
bonds to-day for the first time. “ There is a wall of sepa- 
ration raised between us forever ! ” she cried. “ God pity 
me, but I cannot go on living so ! ” 

I found no word of comfort, nor did she expect it. She 
pressed my hand, and with a soft, whispered, “ Let it be 
enough ! ” she left the room. 

Not a word was spoken at dinner. Elizabeth disap- 
peared into her room after the meal was ended ; the pastor 
went to church, and I, too, took my hymn book, and went 
to service. A young deacon preached to some children 
and old women. Almost every one was out in the woods 
celebrating Whitsunday. I resolved to take a stroll there 
after the service, and carried out my resolution. It had 
always had an unspeakable charm for me to take short 
walks of exploration in such little old towns ; besides, I 
could not bear to be in the house. 

The streets were deserted ; the sun shone brightly, and 
I walked along without thinking whither. Here and there 
some old people sat on the benches before the houses, and 
enjoyed the festival in their own way. I strolled along 
several broad, handsome streets, admired some very old 
houses, paused in astonishment before the quaint, unoccu- 


Dangerous Ground. 


263 


pied ducal castle, behind which large gardens seemed to 
extend, and asked a boy whether people were allowed 
to walk in the castle park ? 

“ Oh yes, as much as you choose,” was the pleasant 
answer, followed with directions as to the street to take ; and 
so I finally, after passing through several narrow lanes, 
reached a magnificent avenue of lindens, in which, as it 
seemed to me, all the children of Borndorf were playing, and 
saw, not far ahead of me, the open gateway of the ducal 
gardens, over which was fastened a placard, with the sensi- 
ble notice that children and dogs would only be admitted 
when accompanied by adults. 

There were immense neglected stretches of lawn. A little 
rushing mountain-stream crossed the park. Dense thick- 
ets of blooming shrubs, in the shade inviting seats, and, 
above all, magnificent old trees, giving delightful shade, 
made this creation of the past a really beautiful garden. 

No one here ! Near one of the side paths stood a sign- 
board, with the inscription, “To the ducal theatre.” 

I followed this path, and ascending a hill I came to a 
clearing where stood a decrepit miniature theatre. All 
the doors and windows were open, and an old man was 
sweeping and raising perfect clouds of dust. 

Oh yes, this evening “ Faust ” was to be given. 

I resolved to go, for such travelling troupes had always 
had an attraction for me. “ Elizabeth will not care,” I 
thought, “ she prefers to be quite alone. ” 

I asked the old man if he sold tickets. 

“No,” was the answer; but the wife of the director 
chanced to be there — if I would knock at this door ; I had 
entered the old building and stood opposite a door which 
must lead to the stage. 

There was no answer to my knock ; I opened the door, 
and started back in alarm. The stage was almost dark, 


264 


Dangerous Ground. 


only through a crack above the flies fell a single dazzling 
sunbeam. Here stood the woman I sought — the beauty of 
yesterday evening ; her light figure stood out plainly in the 
dim light ; the black eyes in the white face gazed at a 
slender student who stood before her, his back turned to 
me. The sunbeam lay between them like a fiery sword, 
while millions of motes danced in it. 

Softly and hastily I closed the door and left the build- 
ing ; I only breathed freely when I stood outside in 
the fresh, warm air. All the blood had rushed to my 
heart, as though I had seen a ghost in there and could 
not overcome my horror. And now involuntarily I paused 
— a man came down the path, leading the child whom 
I had seen yesterday, by the hand. She was daintily 
dressed in white, with blue ribbons on her long blonde 
hair. 

I felt as though some misfortune was about to occur, 
but what did these strangers and their lives and deeds 
concern me ? Nevertheless, this feeling did not prevent 
me from gazing again and again at the child. She, too, 
had turned her little head, and as I threw her a kiss she 
broke away from her father and made me a charming, 
awkward little courtesy, which only increased her roguish 
loveliness. 

I came home by a circuitous way, just at supper time. 
Elizabeth met me in the garden. “ Poor Anna, you are 
certainly bored,” she said sadly. “ If I only knew ” 

“Oh, do not be vexed, Lieschen ; I have been on such 
an exploration stroll.” 

We sat silently in the garden, and I turned the conversa- 
tion to our youth. “ Do you remember, Elizabeth, how 
you tried to learn Low German ? ” 

She nodded. “ I remember the poem you tried to teach 
me, Anna,” said she ; “ I once attempted to translate it into 


Dangerous Ground. 


265 


High German, but I did not succeed. Ah, yes, Anna, 
childhood is sacred as a child itself.” 

She paused, for her husband drew near. 

This evening, for the first time, I noticed the relation of 
the two ; only during the silent repast it came to me, with 
crushing might, how near and yet how far apart they 
were. She almost anxiously avoided glancing at him, 
while he sought her eye. She paid him every attention to 
which he seemed accustomed ; she mixed his tea, spread 
his bread, and answered his questions, but it was almost 
automatically. He often shook his head in silence, while 
he tried to talk to me. It was just the same as yesterday, 
only more noticeable since I had heard Elizabeth’s con- 
fession. 

When it struck half-past ten, I had endured enough, 
and rose to say good-night. Then down the gravel path, 
which was flooded with bright moonlight, old Katharine 
came hurrying faster than I would have thought possible 
for her old feet. 

“Mr. Steinkopf” — she could scarcely find words — 
“ Mr. Steinkopf, you must come quickly to the ‘ Red 
Trout ; ’ an actor has stabbed his wife. Ah ! Mr. Stein- 
kopf, pray run quickly, before she dies.” 

He hurried away. I sat motionless beside Elizabeth, 
and knew, as though I had been there, exactly what had 
occurred. I could have given every particular of the deed. 
“ The poor child ! ” I cried, thinking of the little one. 

Then I sprang up, and was about to hurry to the house. 

“ A child, Anna?” asked Elizabeth, grasping my arm. 
“ Has the woman a child ? ” 

“Yes, a girl — a dear little thing.” 

' “ And the mother is dying ? ” she continued, breathlessly. 

“ I do not know, Elizabeth. I will find out.” 

“Wait, I will come with you.” 


266 


Dangerous Ground. 


In a few minutes we arrived at the inn. A crowd had 
collected, and were staring up at the windows of the house 
— people flushed with the Whitsun frolics, with green twigs 
in their hats, and heated faces, mothers with little children 
in their arms, and young girls in light gowns who had 
hurried from the dancing hall. All wished to hear what 
had happened, and, if possible, see. “ The pastor has gone 
up-stairs,” we heard some one say, “and the mayor — and 
the police ” 

Under the linden-tree, whither we forced our way with 
difficulty, sat a group of elderly men, talking eagerly ; the 
notes of a waltz floated from the windows of the dancing 
hall which overlooked the garden, and drowned the clap- 
ping of the tops of the beer-mugs : the air was redolent of 
sausages. At last we reached the hall ; only a policeman 
stood there, and was about to refuse us admission, but 
when he saw Elizabeth, he drew aside. 

“ She is already dead, Mrs. Steinkopf,” said he. 

“ Where is the child ? ” asked Elizabeth. 

“ The child is probably with the actresses in No. 7 ; 
they all ran there from the theatre.” 

“ Did the accident happen in the theatre ? ” I asked. 

“Yes, madame, on the stage— he had, I believe, some 
scene to act with a knife — — ” 

Elizabeth hurried up the stairs, and, without first knock- 
ing, opened the door of No. 7. I will never forget the 
sight. A tallow candle in a china candlestick faintly 
lighted the large room, and there sat or stood some six 
or seven women, still in their theatrical costumes, their 
faces pale under the paint. 

Martha, judging from her dress, held the child in her 
lap; the others, part of the populace, in remarkable old 
German costumes, seemed unable to believe the terrible 
reality. I have never seen such horrified faces. 


Dangerous Ground. 


267 


“ Is that the dead woman’s child ? ” asked Elizabeth. 

The old woman in the matronly cap, instead of answer- 
ing, began to sob. The child, frightened by the disfigured 
faces, cried softly. 

“ Is the husband really the murderer ? ” asked the little 
woman at my side, without taking her eyes from the small 
blonde matron. 

“Yes ! ” was the monosyllabic answer. 

“ He played the part of Valentine,” said a young girl, 
“ They had some words after the first act ; he declared 
that she was always making eyes at a student. I saw it 
too ; he sat with two or three others in a proscenium box. 
She always behaved so, and the manager was as jealous as 
Othello.” 

“Yes,” said another ; “ a few weeks ago, in E , we 

thought he would shoot her. Now he will be sent to 
prison.” 

“ If not worse,” sobbed Martha. 

“Yes, he will be hanged,” came a voice from the 
corner. 

The scream of another silenced the prophetess of evil. 

“No,” said a third, “ she drove him to desperation. On 
my soul, I will swear — I ” 

“ Has the unfortunate man or woman relatives ? ” Eliza- 
beth interrupted. 

“ Not so much as a cat belongs to them.” 

“What will become of the child ? ” said Elizabeth. 

“ Yes, that we do not know.” 

And now Martha raised her thin weak voice and gave 
an account of the dead woman’s life which made us shud- 
der, the first words contained such grave accusations. 

“ Be silent,” said Elizabeth gravely; “ we are all sinners, 
the Bible says ; perhaps you can remember the words 
from the days of your childhood,” 


268 


Dangerous Ground. 


Suddenly she stood close to the surprised woman, and 
without further remark took the child from her arms. 
“ Come.” 

“ To my mamma ? ” cried the child, and put her little arms 
confidingly around the neck, and laid her face, with the 
poor sleepy little eyes, against the cheek of my Elizabeth. 

“ Yes, to your mother,” said she soothingly. As she 
turned to the door the pastor entered. He stared at Eliz- 
abeth as though she were an apparition. 

“ Elizabeth ! ” said he uncertainly. 

“ I will keep her,” said she softly and firmly. 

“ Come out with her ; her father wishes to take leave ” 

The door closed behind us. In the hall, surrounded by 
policemen, stood a tall, slender man, still young, his hair 
clinging to his damp forehead, his face deathly pale. 

“ Do not be anxious about the child,” said Elizabeth 
mildly. “ I will faithfully care for her, if you will give 
her to me.” 

The man stared at her gentle face, as though to judge 
to whom he was now to confide his only treasure in this 
world. 

“ It is the pastor’s wife ; you may be content,” one of 
the policemen whispered to him compassionately. 

A look of relief passed over the rigid face. He seized 
the weeping child in his arms, and kissed it as though he 
would suffocate it, and as he gave it back to Elizabeth, 
he murmured, scarce audibly : “ May God bless you for 
having pity on the child of a murderer and dishonored 
man ! ” 

It seemed as though these words awakened me, for 
until now I had witnessed all as in a dream. “ Elizabeth ! ” 
1 said. 

It had grown still ; the steps of the prisoner and his 
guard died away ; only she, the pastor, and I were left in 


Dangerous Ground. 


269 


the hall. She made no answer, but took off her shawl and 
wrapped the child in it, for the little thing was in her 
night-clothes. Her husband watched her in silence. 

“ Now come,” said she. 

We went down-stairs. The crowd had followed the 
poor fellow to the city hall ; our street was silent and 
deserted. 

What was passing in the mind of the man who walked 
beside me ? Elizabeth was ahead ; she walked along in 
the bright moonlight, her tread as quick and elastic as 
though she carried no burden. We reached the house. 
The pastor hurried up and operfed the door for his wife. 
“ In God’s name, then ! ” I heard him say. 

I ascended the broad stairs to my room. There was 
nothing for me to do down-stairs ; I saw the pastor put 
his arm around Elizabeth, and draw her over the threshold, 
for she staggered under her burden. What might she not 
be bringing into the house with this child ? What might 
not be its inheritance of sin and passions ? I shuddered 
as I repeated the words, “ The child of a murderer and 
dishonored man ! ” Had they forgotten that there is a 
God who visits the sins of the fathers upon the children ? 

I could not sleep : I opened the window and gazed out 
into the garden ; the nightingales sang ; the moon shone 
so brightly, turning every leaf to silver. It was probably 
shining into the cell of the man who had loved so pas- 
sionately the wife whom he had killed, and through the 
windows of the room below me, too, where Elizabeth was 
preparing a bed for the child beside hers. I could hear 
soft coming and going down there. 

Then all grew quiet, and I heard Elizabeth’s gentle 
voice say, softly and yet so distinctly : “ Hermann, I thank 
you ! ” 

Then he answered, in a voice trembling with emotion : 


270 


Dangerous Ground. 


“ Yes, Elizabeth, let there be peace between us once more ; 
it is high time. Your child — ours — the dear boy, I did 
not punish him in impatience or anger at his disobedience. 
I was afraid, terribly afraid, that he would take cold in his 
mad romping ; you ” 

She sobbed now quite loudly, and he closed the window ; 
I, too, closed mine. 

Only Elizabeth could do such a thing, I thought to my- 
self, drawing the’ thick curtains to shut out the moonlight. 
I felt mournful and softened ; I should not have had the 
courage What strength of mind, what unselfishness and 
love, what confidence in God, were necessary to enable one 
to take this child to her heart ! 

The next morning I frankly expressed my opinion to 
the pastor as we walked up and down in the garden. It 
had stormed during the night, and the air was delightfully 
cool. I saw by his pale face that anxiety had made him 
wakeful during the past night. 

“ Dear Madame Anna,” he replied, as I remarked to him 
that I believed in the heredity of characteristics and tem- 
perament, “ we can only do our duty, and that we will do 
for the child to the best of our ability ; the rest is in God’s 
hands. Elizabeth came back from the churchyard with 
tearful eyes ; her grief has grown milder ; she lives again ; 
she is the old Elizabeth once more ; I owe it to this little 
stranger, God bless her ! ” 

I pressed his hand. “ And bless you both,” I added. 

A few days later I departed. My carriage rolled away 
from the quiet parsonage, and as I turned once more at 
the corner, I saw Elizabeth’s delicate figure standing on 
the door-step, the child in her arms, and she nodded and 
waved her hand to me. 

“ She is better than I,” I thought to myself, as I had so 
often done before. 


Dangerous Ground. 


271 


Since then I had heard and seen only good of the three 
beings in the Borndorf parsonage. The little thing had be- 
come a charming child — not a pattern of goodness, as Eliza- 
beth wrote or told me — but with no remarkably bad traits 
of character. She was tenderly attached to her adoptive 
parents, whom she knew only as her own. They had seen 
in a paper that her father had been released from prison 
upon a proclamation of universal amnesty, but that had 
been years ago. He had not troubled himself about his 
child ; perhaps he had learned that she was well cared for, 
and may have thought that he would not disturb her peace 
with his ruined life. He had offered no objections to a 
legal adoption, and Martha Steinkopf had long since be- 
come the legal child of her adoptive parents. 

As I say, I had seen the half-grown, really charming 
girl at a little summer resort on the North Sea, had rejoiced 
over her beauty and winning ways, and, had it not been for 
Elizabeth’s gentle, prudent, counteracting influence, would 
have thoroughly spoiled her. She was very pious at that 
time, this young girl ; over her bed hung a picture of Christ, 
and in the evenings she used to kneel down beside her bed 
in her long white night-dress, and pray aloud. 

“ Elizabeth,” I said once, as we were walking on the 
beach at low tide, while Martha and her father were some 
distance ahead, eagerly searching for mussels, “ when she 
is a little older, I shall ask you to lend her to me for a 
while.” 

Elizabeth gazed at me. “No, dear Annie,” she replied 
firmly, “that would not be for the child’s good.” 

“ Why not ? ” 

“ I know what you have in mind, you dear, worldly 
woman ; you wish to parade her young beauty. You would 
take her to Berlin with you, to balls and on long journeys, 
and put all kinds of ideas in her head. No, Anna, her 


272 


Dangerous Ground. 


character is not yet fully formed. I will not let her go out 
of my hands yet ; it would be wrong.” 

“ But you cannot shut her up, Elizabeth.” 

“ Certainly not. Do we attempt it ? She has enough 
enjoyment in her life. Does she look as though she were 
deprived of anything ? Do not be vexed, Anna ; you do 
not suspect how anxious I have always been about her.” 

“Very well. Be calm, Elizabeth ; I will not spoil your 
child,” said I, touched. 

“ Do not misunderstand me, Anna ; my own child I 
would have lent to you for years, but this one — no, not 
this one.” 

Then we corresponded frequently until a year and a half 
ago, since which time I have received no answer to my 
letters, and 

Suddenly I rouse myself from my recollections and re- 
turn to the present. It has grown dark ; the rain still falls 
upon the linden leaves and the pavement. Dear God ! 
what can have become of this child ? 

I was about to ring for a light, when there was a shy 
knock, and as I called “ Come in ! ” some one slowly crossed 
the threshold — slowly, and coughing; and against the bright 
background of the open doorway, I distinguish that it 
is an old woman in a white cap and shawl. 

“ You probably do not recognize me, madame. I am 1 old 
Katharine from the parsonage,’ as you used to call me.” 

“ Why, Katharine ! ” I cry, “ this is nice in you ! ” And 
while I lead the old woman to a chair and ring for lights, I 
ask : “ How did you learn that I am here, Katharine ? ” 

“ I will tell you afterward, madame ; I must first get 
my breath a bit,” and she coughed, and drew long, quick 
breaths. 

“ Are you still living at the parsonage, old Katharine ? ” 

“ Oh, Heaven forbid ! What could they do with such an 


Dangerous Ground. 


273 


old cripple ? No, madame, for a year I have been in the 
old women’s home, down on White Street. You know, 
madame, the pastor got me admitted.” 

The girl now brings a lamp, and stares at the old woman 
in surprise. 

“ I am well taken care of, and could live at ease,” she 
continued, “ if it were not for the grief of the last two 
years.” The old woman’s wrinkled face, now that I can 
see it, wears a look of sincere grief. She looks me straight 
in the eyes. “ Ah, yes, she no longer looks like you, 
madame — her hair is quite white, and her eyes have grown 
so large — oh, dear Heaven ! ” 

I draw a chair near hers, and say : u Now, tell me all, 
Katharine.” 

“Yes, I will try, and if I wander away from the subject 
you must help me, ma’am, and do not be vexed if I have 
to stop and cough.” 

“ Oh, of course not, Katharine.” 

“ You know how it happened — that the child was taken 
into our house. It horrified me then, but the master and 
mistress knew better ; they thought that with their love and 
kindness, and prayers, they could make of the wild plant 
a beautiful flower. Ah, ma’am, she was a fine child to look 
at, and so were her manners, as nice as though she were de- 
scended from kings, and so she moved among the children 
with whom she played, and they were the children of the 
mayor and all the best people in town. And how good 
she was, and how she could coax ! It was always, ‘ My dar- 
ling Katharine ! ’ when she wanted her doll’s cup filled with 
milk, or a few raisins to play house with. And then she 
was so smart ! When anything was read to her she knew 
it by heart, at once, and she could recite it again so beau- 
tifully, with such gestures. The pastor himself, in the 
chancel, could not do it better. She was naughty some- 


274 


Dangerous Ground. 


times ; but then she was punished. Yes, Mrs. Steinkopf 
was strict, although one could easily see that it was hard for 
her to be so. But she had grown into Mr. Steinkopf s heart 
as though she were his own child. 

“ When she was confirmed, all the people in the church 
had eyes for her alone ; she looked very beautiful in her 
plain black frock, with the golden cross — as golden as her 
hair — on her breast. And as she came out of church after- 
ward, beside Mrs. Steinkopf, every one whispered behind 
her how beautiful she was, and the young councillor put his 
eyeglass in his eye, and stretched his hand and said/ Magnifi- 
cent ! ’ I was outside and heard and saw everything, how 
the mistress looked displeased, and the child flushed and 
glanced about, and for the first time there was a look in the 
black eyes — a look such as I had never seen before. I can- 
not describe it — a kind of joy which I did not think suited 
to the day and hour. And when I came up-stairs that 
evening to see that her room was in order, she was stand- 
ing before the mirror, and looking at herself with a smile. 
‘ Good gracious, Martha,’ I cried, ‘ what are you looking 
at ? There is really nothing unusual in your face. The 
nose goes down, and the mouth across ! ’ She laughed at 
that, and grew red. But I saw very well that a spark had 
fallen in the powder, which burned on secretly until it 
burst into flames. 

“ It is not wrong, ma’am, it is even natural, that a 
young girl should rejoice in her beauty ; but with her it 
was different. She had loved admiration even when she 
was a little girl ; then she had been happy if she were 
called ‘very good,’ but now her beauty came in question. 
About that time I was somewhat ailing, and the mistress 
took a young girl to help me, and our child was to look 
after the housekeeping. They told me that I was to rest, 
spin a little, and sit in the sun and warm myself. Ernestine, 


Dangerous Ground. 


2 75 


the new girl, was ignorant, but she was always lively, and 
would sing at her work as though the whole house be- 
longed to her alone. She knew all kinds of songs, songs 
which I had sung when I was young, and because Martha 
liked to hear them, she was almost always in the kitchen. 

“ Mrs. Steinkopf said nothing when our young lady 
hummed them as she sat in the garden at her sewing, or in 
the house ; she always enjoyed seeing her happy. And 
there was no harm in it, ma’am ; it was only that Ernestine 
talked so much to our child, who knew nothing of the world. 
Mrs. Steinkopf’s brother was in love with the child, and 
wanted to marry her, but her parents thought she was too 
young, and he must wait. Had they only not decided 
that ! Many a girl marries at eighteen. Dear me, it was 
always so quiet in the house, ma’am, and when there was a 
company, a young girl would not enjoy herself much — all 
older people, who talked intelligently and learnedly, and 
young people like a little foolishness and gayety. The 
child’s rosy cheeks gradually grew paler, and when she sat 
by the window she stared out with great longing eyes, and 
sometimes, of a summer evening, I would find her stand- 
ing by the garden wall staring down at the roofs of the 
houses in the valley, and her little, feet kept time to the 
dance music which was being played down there, while 
her eyes were full of tears. 

“ ‘ Katharine,’ she asked me once, ‘ did you ever dance 
when you were young ? ’ Well, I could not lie ; I did dance, 
and it is true that it was fun, especially when I danced 
with my sweetheart. But I said : ‘Yes, child, but it only 
makes one’s feet ache and heart beat ! ’ and hurried away. 
Sometimes I thought to myself that dancing was no sin, 
and that they might allow her to dance, but nothing was 
ever said about it. 

“ Sometimes I teased her about Mrs. Steinkopf’s brother. 


276 


Dangerous Ground. 


but then she grew angry and said he was like porridge, and 
she could not bear such a man. It is true, 1 should not 
have wanted to marry him, such a gentle creature, always 
so sweet, but still he is a good man. 

“ It is just a year and a half since the postman came 
one morning with a letter with a great seal, and then Mrs. 
Steinkopf came into the kitchen and said to the child : 

‘ Father and I must go away For a few days, on family 
affairs. You must keep house, my little Martha ; I can 
depend upon you, can I not ? ’ The child begged • ‘ Dear 
mother, take me with you, oh, take me with you ; the 
world is so beautiful, and I should so like to see the 
Rhine — oh, so much ! ’ and she threw her arms around the 
mistress’ neck, and petted her and kissed her, and begged : 

* Take me with you, oh, please, please ! ’ But it was of no 
use. It was in September, just when the fruit was ripen- 
ing, and the mistress said that must all be attended to, and 
Martha must be a dear, good child. It was a business 
trip concerning a dead uncle’s will. She — Martha — would 
soon fly out into the world, perhaps next summer. 

“ Well, in short, they left her alone. She cried awhile, 
then sang ; with her, tears and laughter came in one 
breath. I was to look after the house, and take good care 
of the two young girls. Ah, ma’am, I was taken down 
with rheumatism, and had to keep my bed. The child 
took care of me — she was good, very good : for three days 
she scarcely left my bedside, she read aloud to me, shook 
up my pillows, and made me laugh in spite of my pain. 
One afternoon she came to my room with some coffee. 
She looked like a rose. I thought it was from the fire, for 
she had been preserving plums ; but it was not, for she 
cried from the doorway : ‘ Katharine, this evening you 
must stay alone. I am going out ! ’ ‘ Are you invited to 

the Schmidts’ ? ’ I asked, for Mrs. Steinkopf had begged 


Dangerous Ground. 


277 


the assistant’s young wife to look after the child a little. 
‘ Why, yes, Martha dear — go, of course ; Ernestine can 
make my soup.’ Then she seated herself beside the bed, 
and said : ‘ No, Katharine, I am not going to the Schmidts’ 
— if you only knew where I am going — guess ! ’ I guessed 
the whole city, but still she shook her head, and the more 
I guessed the more she' laughed, and finally she said: 
‘ Never mind, you would never guess ; I am going to the 
theatre with Mila Krafft ; Mrs. Krafft sent the girl a little 
while ago. She is ill and cannot use her ticket, so she 
wanted me to have it, because I am so lonely.’ 

“I thought I had not heard aright. You probably do 
not know the Kraffts, ma’am ? They live in the fine 
house at the corner of the Market, and money is as plenti- 
ful as hay with them, and they spend it for everything. 
Mila had gone to school with our child, but the mistress 
never liked her very much, she was such a vain, bold 
thing ; she could not forbid Martha from associating with 
her, so Martha went there to tea occasionally. ‘ What ! ’ 
I cried, ‘you are going to the theatre with Mila Krafft? 
No, my darling, my sweet, I will not let you ! ’ She stared 
at me. ‘ Do not be disagreeable, Katharine ; there is such 
a lovely piece to be given, Krawall und Liebe ’ 

“ ‘ That is fine,’ I cried. ‘ Krawall und Liebe may be 
something very fine, but it is no use.’ But she did not 
hear me ; she laughed until tears ran down her cheeks, and 
kneeling beside my bed, she buried her face in the pillow 
and shook with laughter : ‘ Katharine, oh, Katharine ! ’ 
she cried, ‘ how can you be so ignorant ? ’ And finally, 
when she had grown calm, she said: ‘You know the 
white plaster bust in father’s room, in the bookcase, the 
one of which you broke the nose with the broom, and I 
glued it on again ? ’ ‘ Yes, child ; what has the poor saint 

to do with this?’ ‘But,’ said she, beginning to laugh 


278 


Dangerous Ground. 


again, ‘that is Friedrich Schiller, who wrote the piece!’ 

‘ Why, is that so, child ? ’ ‘ Certainly, Katharine,’ said she, 

and her face was quite serious, ‘ and there can be nothing 
wrong in it, can there, Katharine ? ” said she, coaxingly. 

“ Well, now, if Mr. Steinkopf had such a thing in his 
study, what objection could I make ? And I remembered 
that there was a play about Luther and his Kate, where 
dear little angels come out and say : ‘ Ah ! if I only knew 
whether—’ But she threw her arms around my neck and 
kissed my old face, so tenderly and so often that I thought 
she could not be more impassioned if she were kissing 
her sweetheart, and then she ran away, and did not come 
back until the lamps were lighted, and she looked as 
pretty as a pink. 

“ ‘ Child, your best dress ! ’ ‘ Yes ; Mila said we are to 

sit in a box ; and, besides, the Prince is here for the hunting, 
and is coming to the theatre with his gentlemen,’ she said 
in excuse. 

“ ‘ I did not know that our Prince liked to see such 
pious pieces,’ I thought to myself. ‘Good-by, Katharine,’ 
said the child, and she turned once more in the doorway, 
and her great black eyes flashed at me roguishly from 
beneath the white hood with the fur border. ‘ Katharine,’ 
she cried, ‘I will greet the court marshal, Von Kalb, for 
you ! ’ ‘ Who ? ’ said I, but she was gone. 

“ Then I began to be remorseful, and an uncertain feel- 
ing of anxiety overcame me. You know, ma’am, there are 
such things as premonitions — do not laugh at me — that 
evening I felt that something was about to happen to the 
child, and down-stairs, in the pastor’s study, the picture of 
the mistress when she was a bride fell from the wall, and 
the glass broke. About eleven o’clock, Martha came back 
from the theatre ; she tried to creep quietly into her room, 
but I called to her to come in. 


Dangerous Ground. 


2 79 


“ ‘ Where have you been so long, child ? ’ I asked, but 
she did not answer, and looked miserable. ‘ Pray speak, 
child. Has anything happened to you ? Was it not nice ? ’ 
“ ‘Not nice ? It was wonderful ! ’ 

“ ‘ Did you cry, my little dove ? ’ 

“ ‘ Oh, so much, Katharine.’ 

“ ‘ Over the play ! Dear child, that is only make- 
believe ! ’ 

“ She looked at me quite scornfully, then with a ‘ Good- 
night ’ she left the room. She was not her usual self. 
But in the night, toward morning, my door opening 
softly waked me, and she came to my bed in her night- 
dress, and said : ‘ I must ask you something, Katharine. 
I cannot sleep until I know.’ 

“ ‘ Good gracious ! what are you about ? ’ I cried. ‘ You 
will certainly catch cold. First put a shawl round you.’ 

“ ‘ It is very short, Katharine. I only wish to know 
whether it is true that my real father was a — ’ she hes- 
itated — ‘ a — ’ she repeated, but could not utter the word — 
‘ that he stabbed my mother ? ’ 

“ And it sounded as though a dying woman were speak- 
ing. 

“ ‘ Good heavens ! who told you that ? ’ I cried. 

“ ‘ Is it true, then ? I wish to know whether it is true ! 
That I am an adopted child, I know ; they told me that at 
school. But ’ 

“ ‘ I do not know,’ said I, lying in my terror ; ‘ ask your 
parents when they come home. It is a shame to tell you 
such a thing. Who did it ? ’ 

“ ‘ One of the actresses, who played the part of the old 
miller’s wife,’ she said, in a strange voice. 

“ 1 How did you happen to speak to the actress ? ’ 

“ 1 The old woman kept staring at me from the stage. I 
sat with Mila and her father in the proscenium box, and in 


280 


Dangerous Ground. 


the third act, as I was trembling to know what was to be- 
come of the poor lovers, the box-door opened softly behind 
me, and a voice called my name in a low voice. I rose cau- 
tiously, so as not to disturb any one, for I thought it was 
Ernestine come to tell me that you were worse, or that 
father and mother had come ; but there stood the old 
miller’s wife in person outside in the corridor, and said she 
must speak to me for a minute after the performance. She 
knew that I was the pastor’s adopted child, and she could 
tell me something of my mother : I looked enough like her 
to be her own self. And then — then we agreed, Katharine, 
that she should wait for me by the church. Mila and her 
father accompanied me home, and then I pretended that I 
was looking after them, and ran to meet the old actress, who 
was waiting for me in the church portico. But she wanted 
me to come to her room for a while, and because I wanted, 
oh, so much, to hear something of my own mother — I — 
do not scold me, Katharine, I went with her.’ 

“ I scold, ma’am ! I could find no words to express my 
fright. 

“ ‘ The old actress,’ the child went on, ‘ was not quite so 
old when she had washed off the paint. She lives in Mr. 
Meyer’s house on the corner, away up on the top floor. She 
took me in her arms and kissed me, and cried as she told 
me that she was present at the time when my father — oh ! 
Katharine — and really she wanted to take me, for she had 
been mamma’s best friend, but she did not know what she 
could do with me while I was so young. 

“ And suddenly the child threw herself down beside my 
bed, and began to sob and cry as violently as yesterday 
she had laughed. And there was I, an old cripple, and 
worried so that I could not speak. 

“ ‘ Katharine, is it true, then — is it true ? ’ 

“ What could I say, ma’am ? Silence means consent. 


Dangerous Ground. 


281 


And whatever she thought, she grew calmer. The first 
gray light of the morning was shining in at the window as 
I said to her: ‘Go to bed, my child. To-morrow I will 
talk with you, and then you will be calmer ; but you shall 
not go to the theatre again, and if that old woman dares to 
come here I will have her turned out of the house post 
haste.’ 

“ She rose and staggered out of the room without saying 
a word. But she did not lie down, but paced up and 
down her room. ‘Thank God!’ I thought, ‘that her parents 
are coming home to-morrow. I will send Ernestine to 
Mrs. Schmidt to-morrow, and ask her to invite the child 
over to her house — the poor child ! If the pastor knew 
that she had sat in the room of an actress ’ 

“ The next day comes a letter from Mrs. Steinkopf, say- 
ing that her husband had been taken ill in Bonn, and she 
must stay there until he recovered, for she could not leave 
him ; Martha must write very often how she was, and 
her sick father so longed for his darling. Martha looked 
so strangely, as she read the letter aloud, that I was sur- 
prised ; it was as if she were not at all sorry. Her black 
eyes gazed dreamily out of the window near which she 
sat, but she said nothing. 

“ Madame, it was so easy for the child to deceive me; I 
lay in bed helpless, and Ernestine, sly creature, was only 
too willing to help the child in what she did, perhaps had 
to do. You see, ma’am, I lived at service in the parson- 
age since I was eighteen years old, but, in spite of all 
sermons, I have always said that a person does what he 
must, but not what he wills ; some are governed by an 
angel, like Mrs. Steinkopf, and others are spurred on by 
the Evil One. And for those whose fathers and mothers 
and grandparents have always been guided by angels only, 
it is not hard to walk as they should ; but a child like ours, 


282 


Dangerous Ground. 


to whose christening all the Sins have been invited, would 
need the strength of giants to walk in the narrow path, 
and she was a weak young thing. Yes, yes, ma’am ; you 
cannot alter the kind.” 

“ Why, Katharine ! ” I interrupted her philosophy. 

“ So it is ! And, in short, ma’am, the Devil had thrown 
a rope around her neck, as I said before, and the actor’s 
blood in her veins rebelled. She went to the theatre every 
evening on the sly ; she got the tickets from the old actress 
— her name was Miss Fuchs — and, as we heard later, she 
did not stay in the audience, but slipped behind the scenes. 
I often heard her whispering to herself in the daytime, 
and once I heard her talking quite loudly under my win- 
dow, when she should have been picking up pears. And I 
raised myself a little in bed, and saw her standing under 
the tree with outstretched arms ; the beautiful bergamots 
had fallen from her apron, and she cried loudly : ‘lama 
captive ! I am in chains ! ’ and then something else about 
a fisher and a boat which could have saved her. I really 
thought she was out of her mind. If only I had not been 
so miserable, I could have kept it off until her parents 
came — but 

“ One day the whole house smelled as though prepara- 
tions were being made for a festival ; the child brought me 
some waffles in the afternoon with my coffee, and said it 
could not be wrong, she had such a longing for them. An 
hour later, I heard a clattering of cups and talking in the 
house, but Ernestine said boldly that it was only a few girl 
friends of the young lady, and I believed her. Unfortu- 
nately Mrs. Schmidt was ill at the time, and could not 
trouble herself about Martha ; so everything came about so 
easily. One day, to my delight, I read in the paper that the 
actors were to give a play as farewell performance, and 
thought : Oh, well, the one time can have done no harm, 


Dangerous Ground. 


283 


and it is good that old Miss Fuchs is going away. That 
she and the child had been together every evening, that 
even the first lover, as they called him, had been in our 
pastor’s study, where no impious word had been heard 
since the memory of man, and had rehearsed plays with the 
child — good heavens ! I never dreamed of such a thing as 
I lay on my sick-bed. 

“ The day before the troupe left the city a letter came 
from Bonn, announcing Mr. and Mrs. Steinkopf’s return 
for the next day. I breathed more freely. 

“It was October now, and I told Ernestine to bring 
branches of fir-trees from the forest and make garlands, 
and Martha to make her father’s favorite cake. ‘ Yes, yes,’ 
was the answer, and toward evening the child came into my 
room ; the moon was shining in at the window, and I could 
see quite plainly her dear fair face, the golden hair, and 
great, dark eyes. 

“‘Come here, my little dear,’ I said ; ‘sit down by me. 
Are you not glad, very glad, that your parents are coming 
home ? ’ 

“ She had seated herself on my bed with her face turned 
to the window, but she did not say a word. 

“ ‘ Martha, child,’ said I teasingly, ‘you are so different 
from what you used to be. Are you in love with any one ? 
Oh, that will be fine when we have a wedding here in the 
old parsonage ; and that day will come, even as to-day 
did.’ 

“ Then she laughed sharply. ‘ Would any one want to 
marry me, the actor’s child, whose father was in prison ? ’ 

“ ‘ Oh, Martha, do you still think of that ? Has not the 
dear God given you the best parents in the world ? ’ 

“ ‘ Of course, Katharine ; it is only that one can never be 
happy except in her own fashion.’ 

“ ‘ You will be happy some day, my treasure.’ 


284 


Dangerous Ground. 


“ 4 That I will, Katharine ! ’ she cried loudly, and her 
eyes sparkled. 1 That I will ! ’ 

“ Then she threw her arms around my neck and said : 

‘ Dear Katharine, do you still pray for me every evening as 
you used to when I was little ? ’ 

“ ‘ Yes, my darling, of course ; every evening, always.’ 

“ ‘ Then do so in future, dear Katharine, please, please.’ 

“ And then she kissed me once more, and a hot drop fell 
upon my face, and before I could think, she was gone.” 

The old woman now sobbed loudly. 

“ Ma’am,” she gasped out, “ when I learned from Ernes- 
tine the next morning that she had gone out in the world 
— into misery, terror and pain and anxiety so overcame me 
that that evening I lay on my bed perfectly unconscious, 
and that lasted for weeks. I did not know what her parents 
said when they found the nest empty. I do not know how 
great a commotion it excited in the city, or whether the 
pastor took steps to bring her back ; I know nothing about 
it, nothing at all. When I came to my senses, snow lay on 
the roofs, and the winter sun shone through the frosty panes 
of my window, and down in the sitting-room sat the mis- 
tress, staring out upon the street, very quiet and calm, and 
her hair was as white as the snow outside. I heard no 
word of reproach, and when I wished to speak of it, the 
pastor signed to me to be silent.” 

A long pause ensued ; I rose and went to the window to 
close it, for the night air was cool. Then I stood and 
gazed out. Yes, I had thought something of the kind 
would happen. Her inherited blood, the love for this 
vagabond life — now so gay, now so fearfully serious, had 
made itself felt. Was it so strange ? There is a charm in 
the word “theatre,” a magic, which carries away every 
young heart, and especially an actor’s child. Art ! Art ! 
and were the stage ever so mean, were the temple but an 


Dangerous Ground. 


285 


old barn, Art holds out her hands over this misery and 
makes it alluring. I myself, when a girl, had wished to 
become an actress, although I had seen the devotees of 
Thalia but a single time in the tavern of my native village, 
when they gave “ Minna von Barnheim.” Even to-day, 
that evening stands in my remembrance as one of the most 
delightful of my life. Poor little Martha ! did you, as old 
Katharine said, have to do what you did ? Poor Elizabeth ! 
who remained solitary in her old days, whose love and care 
had been so in vain. 

I leaned my head against the cool window-panes, and bit 
my handkerchief to keep from sobbing aloud. 

Then there was a cough behind me. “ Madame,” said old 
Katharine, “ I only want to ask you if you could not speak 
a few kind words to the child. She has heard that you are 
here, and thinks you could help her — she would not let me 
go until ” 

“What ?” I asked, breathlessly ; “ Martha is here ! ” 

“ Yes, with the actors ; up-stairs in the attic, ma’am. That 
is why I came to you.” 

I stood speechless, while the old woman continued shyly : 
“ The poor thing thinks the director would consent, if you 
asked him, that she need not play here ” 

“ She is to play here ? She is here with this troupe ? ” 

“ Yes, ma’am.” 

I began to pace up and down the room. 

“ For heaven’s sake, Elizabeth must not have that to 
bear ; send for her,” I said. “What does she call herself 
now ? ” 

“ By her mother’s name — Tosca von Korinska. Ah, you 
see, ma’am ” 

“ Very well, Katharine, bring Miss Tosca von Ko- 
rinska.” 

The old woman left the room. She may have taken 


2 86 


Dangerous Ground. 


my excitement for pride, whereas it was simply embarrass- 
ment. How was I to treat her who was now to come into 
my presence ? I had held her in my arms, had hugged 
and kissed her, had called her my darling, my sweet child ; 
but how am I to treat her now, when she has deceived the 
woman who is dear to me as a sister ? I ring the bell and 
order a lamp brought, for I wish to see her plainly, and 
then I pace up and down my room ; it is a long time 
before she comes. 

At last there is a knock, and upon my “ Come in," the 
door slowly opens, and across the threshold comes some 
one whom I know, whom I saw years before, down under 
the linden-tree, among the singing students, only she 
whom I see to-day is younger and more beautiful. We 
stand opposite each other in silence. She gazes at the 
floor, and is very pale. She wears a creamy cashmere 
gown. Evidently she has first put on the dress she may 
wear in modern comedies on the stage, before coming. 
It has cheap lace at the throat and wrists, and looks as 
though it had been pulled out of a trunk a few minutes 
before, it is so mussed. But her golden hair is still 
arranged in the old simple fashion on her beautifully 
shaped head, and the two magnificent braids hang down 
her back, just as when I saw little Martha on the beach, 
and rejoiced in her. This childish simplicity is in strange 
contrast to the modern, cheap costume. 

This is Martha Steinkopf. 

I do not know what to say to her. Half actress, half 
distinguished lady; half woman, half child. How old is 
she ? Oh, yes, twenty, but with the ideas of a sixteen- 
year-old girl. I feel quite strangely, face to face with this 
riddle. 

“ Aunt Anna ! ” says she at last. 

I cannot answer. As I am silent, she raises her eyes, 


Dangerous Ground. 


287 


which are filled with tears, and her face wears a tender, 
pleading look. 

“ Martha,” I say, with difficulty restraining my emotion, 
“I had fancied our meeting would be different.” 

“ Oh, Aunt Anna, if you knew ” 

“ Sit down, and tell me what you wish of me.” 

“Aunt Anna,” she begins quickly, “I cannot play 
here ; I think I should go mad. I cannot bear the 
thought that the Borndorfers will come in streams to see 
the pastor’s Martha on the stage. I cannot play, remem- 
bering my father and mother, my innocent, happy child- 
hood — I — cannot ! ” 

She had buried her face in her hands, and wept. “ Aunt 
Anna, for mother’s sake, go to the manager — you are 
wealthy — buy permission from him for me not to play — I 
cannot ! ” 

“ You are no longer the pastor’s Martha, poor child ” 

“ Yes,” she cries, “ here I am, in recollection of the past. 
Oh, aunt, every stone here knows me, every tree in the 
forest ; and every window in the houses seems to gaze at 
me reproachfully, oh — and the people ! And, aunt, if 
father reads to-morrow what is printed on the bills — 
aunt, they must not be distributed ! ” 

“ What is printed on them ? ” 

With a trembling hand she gives me a programme. 
Faust — Margaret — again three stars, and I read : 

“ This talented young tragedian is not unknown to the 
estimable people of our art-loving city. A year and a half 
ago, she lived within these walls as the cherished and be- 
loved adopted child of one of our first citizens. Her in- 
born love of art — she is the daughter of that incomparably 
beautiful young actress who found a sudden death here 
at the hand of her jealous husband — drew her from her 
peaceful but narrow life here. Like almost every great 


288 


Dangerous Ground. 


genius, she must first burst her chains before she acquired 
her liberty, but she has been splendidly rewarded,” etc., etc. 

There was a long paragraph chanting her praises. 

“ Where is the manager ? ” I ask. 

“ I will take you to him, Aunt Anna — oh, I thank you ! ” 

1 climbed a badly lighted flight of stairs, which, how- 
ever, was only too well known to me. Two men met us 
on the stairs. A small, fat, jovial-looking man cried, with- 
out being embarrassed by my presence : “ Ah, the pastor’s 
daughter in white ! Where are you going, my little dear ? 
To the old man again ? Do not show yourself to him, he 
is furious with you.” 

The other, a tall, slight young man, whose face, as far as 
I could judge in the dim light, was of an ideal type, some- 
what resembling the portrait of the youthful Byron, drew 
back, hat in hand, to let us pass. 

“ Do not be so foolish, Martha,” he murmured, and 
looked at her angrily. 

“ Is he up-stairs ? ” said she, instead of answering. 

He nodded shortly and stared at me with a cool, almost 
hostile gaze. 

“ Who are the two, Martha ? ” 

“ The little one — our comedian.” 

“ And the other, Martha ? ” 

“ The first lover,” she stammered. 

“ And they call you by your first name ? ” 

She flushed crimson. “ We all call each other by our 
first names,” said she ; “ it is the custom.” 

In the next moment I stood before the stern director in 
the little attic room ; she had remained outside. 

“ My dear madame,” he replied to my petition, “ you 
surely would not ask that — but madame cannot judge our 
circumstances. Suppose it rains to-morrow, and Miss 
Martha Steinkopf, who for various reasons excites — must 


Dangerous Ground. 


289 


excite, great interest in this city, what is the consequence ? 
The house sold out ! My dear madame, you might as 
well ask a farmer not to bring in his hay for some absurd 
reason, although the sun shone.” 

“ I offer you compensation, sir.” 

He smiled, and gazed at me from his half-shut gray eyes. 
He stood there like a poor imitation of Friedrich Haase 
in some comedy role, his left hand thrust in his vest, the 
other resting upon the table. “ I am incapable of even 
approximating the damages which might ensue, madame ; 
besides, with the best intentions, I could not replace her 
in this role. Madame must do us the honor of witnessing 
the child’s acting.” 

“ Thank you ! But if Miss Tosca were to become ill, 
how then, director ? ” 

“ Oh, that trick is played out. She cannot feign illness 
every evening for six weeks ; she must come on the stage 
here some time, and the sooner the better. Besides, I have 
been to the physician and warned him against such a 
case. Let her play here ; later, if your heart yearns for 
Miss Tosca von Korinska, I will give her into your hands 
without asking for compensation.” 

He laughed, looked at his watch, and shifted several 
pamphlets on the table. 

“ What does that mean ? ” I asked. 

He shrugged his shoulders. “ That she will never 
amount to anything in her life,” said he, contemptuously. 
“ She has not a spark of talent, no fire, not a suspicion of 
how to act.” 

“ She is quite without talent ? ” I asked breathlessly. 

“Quite!” he replied. “How could it be otherwise? 
Her original talent has been suffocated by the tobacco 
smoke of the pastor’s study. She has not even ordinary 
talent — the manners of a nun instead of naive freshness, 


290 


Dangerous Ground. 


and in tragic scenes a martyred expression ; impossible for 
the stage, quite impossible. Her mother, whom she so 
resembles — ah, she had spirit — she would have become a 
star of the first magnitude.” 

“ But, sir, if that is so ” 

“ She must play here, madame. Her contract runs until 
June, and here her name will fill the house as though she 
were a celebrity.” 

“ If, sir, you will accede to my wish and dissolve the con- 
tract at once, I will give you three thousand marks,” said 
I coolly. “ You may send me your decision this evening. 
Good day ! ” 

It seemed to me that the man’s respectful bow was no 
bad sign. He accompanied me to the door, and said : 
“ Good day, Baroness. I should like to oblige you — 
but ” 

“ Good day, sir ! ” 

She still sat on the stairs, on the same place where I had 
seen her, a sweet little child, for the first time. “ Come 
with me to my room,” I said. There I began : “ I hope he 
will consent, Martha ; do not despair. Besides, one can- 
not possibly drag you on the stage by the hair of your 
head. As I say, I think he will release you, and then you 
will go away with me to-morrow morning. And listen, 
my girl ; because you were dear to Elizabeth, I will take 
you home with me — of course, with the agreement — the 
manager tells me that your contract runs to June ” 

I paused suddenly. The girl’s hands had fallen at her 
side, and her black eyes flashed at me. 

“ I will not,” said she roughly, “ for I love my art. I 
love it above everything. I should not have remained with 
this troupe at any rate. I am going to the Royal Theatre 

at D . His Highness himself promised me that I 

should be engaged.” 


Dangerous Ground. 


291 


“ Child,” I cried in horror, “ do you know what it means 
to be in favor with this prince ? ” 

“ No,” she replied. “His Highness came behind the 

scenes and vowed and promised that ” 

“ Did your acting please him so greatly ? ” I asked iron- 
ically. 

“ Yes,” said she proudly, “ and I know I acted well that 
evening. No, aunt,” she continued, coming up to me with 
clasped hands, “ do not think that I despise my profession. 
I am enthusiastic about it. I would not give it up for all 
the luxuries which I would have with you, nor for all the 
kindness with which you would bear with me. I am an 
artist, body and soul. Only here, here I cannot play. I 
should be paralyzed. Oh, aunt, have pity ! What shall I 
do ? I cannot inflict that upon my parents ! ” 

“ And yet you could inflict far more upon them,” said I 
severely. “ Do you know that your adopted mother has 
become a victim to melancholia — and that your father, who 
loved you as his own child, has become a broken man ? ” 
“ Oh, aunt, I will give my life to make it good to them, 
but not my art ! ” 

I shrugged my shoulders. What could I say ? 

“ You are angry with me, aunt,” she stammered. “You 
do not approve of my profession ! ” And in a voice husky 
with tears, she continued : “ There are hours in which I 
almost die of longing for my parents, for the dear old 
house. How often I am there in my dreams ! Aunt, do 
not cast me off altogether. Tell my parents I have re- 
mained virtuous. I will study and strive to make progress. 
And when I have reached the level toward which I aspire, 
then I will come and beg you all for forgiveness. Aunt, 
every calling can be honorable.” 

She had come close to me, and made a movement as 
though she would lay her blonde head on my shoulder, and 


292 


Dangerous Ground . 


say, “Auntie, darling auntie,” as she used to do. In her 
great speaking eyes there was a longing for tenderness and 
love, but she did not venture to touch me. Finally, I drew 
her in my arms and petted her, and she began to weep. 

She is still so young, so full of ideals ; there is still some- 
thing of her pious childhood about her, when she sat on 
her father’s knee and looked at the picture Bible, or be- 
side her mother, who guided the knitting needles in her 
little hands. There is still the down on the peach, but 
for how long ? 

“ At least, do not go to the Royal Theatre in D , ' 

Martha,” said I, more roughly than I had intended. “ I 
mean well with you. Rather remain with your travelling 
company.” 

She started up. “You think I am not talented enough, 
aunt ? ” 

“ Not that. The women who are engaged there are — 
well, I should not like you to be thrown with them.” 

She was silent for a while, as though frightened. “ Oh, 
aunt,” said she then, “ now I understand you, but I am 
safe from that. I must submit to be talked about. I have 
adopted a life of publicity, but I wish I could tell you what 
a strong safeguard I have in the memory of my parents, 
and besides ” 

“ Remember what Emilia Galotti says when she begs 
her father’s dagger, that she may kill herself.” 

“Yes, aunt, I have played Emilia, but you do not know 
— ” She has flushed crimson, and looks down, then she 
throws her arm around my neck again and kisses me as 
though she would force back with this kiss a confession 
which trembled on her lips. “Aunt,” she whispered at 
last, “ I wish you could see me play once. I know you 
have good judgment.” 

“ I do not wish to see you, Martha ; it would pain me 


Dangerous Ground. 


2 93 


too much. Now go ; I am weary.” She gazes at me with 
such a tender, pleading look, kisses my hand, and leaves 
the room. Indeed, I feel scarcely able to speak. 

When she is gone I take my shawl. I must have air. 
The garden behind the house will be empty in such 
weather ; to be sure, it is still raining. So I make use of 
the bowling alley as a walk. The dark garden is really 
quite deserted, the elder is very fragrant, the air is cool 
and refreshing to my hot brow. Gradually my eyes become 
accustomed to the darkness. I plainly distinguish the 
blackboard against the wall of the alley in which I am 
pacing up and down, recognize the trees and the black 
masses of the houses beyond the garden, which rise like 
terraces ; yonder tall roof must be that of the parsonage. 

“ Poor Elizabeth ! ” 

I pause at the end of the alley, lean against one of the 
wooden columns which are meant to lend the building 
the appearance of a hall, and gaze out. 

“ Poor Elizabeth ! ” I repeat. How long I have stood 
there, absorbed in my thoughts, I do not know, when I hear 
footsteps and whispering — the passionate, unintelligible 
words in a man’s voice, first. They must be on the other 
side of the thicket, and now a woman’s voice answers — it 
is Martha ! “ Do not torture me so terribly ! ” she says, 

and her voice sounds weary. 

“ I torture you ? ” he cries. “ You torment yourself and 
me ! Do you think it is happiness for me to watch your 
hesitation, to see that you would prefer to flee to the 
parsonage this evening, barefooted, and with ashes on your 
head ? Pray go, go, but never say again that art is sacred to 
you ; never again put your arms around my neck and tell 
me that now, for the first time, you know what it is to live, 
now that the temple of art is open to you, now — that you 
love. Go back to the old suffocating atmosphere, and dust 


294 


Dangerous Ground. 


the books in your father’s study, sit properly by the 
window, and draw your needle in and out of the linen. 
See how this narrow life will please you now, after you 
have enjoyed golden liberty. I tell you, you will learn to 
envy the miserable woman who goes from place to place 
with marionettes.” 

“ I do love you, Waldemar, and I love my art ; you 
know best how dearly. But here, here — believe me, I can- 
not play here,” she defended herself tearfully. 

“You cannot!” the man burst out. “You will not. 
Pray, say so frankly. If I am to believe that you love me, 
prove it by showing to the whole world that you are above 
these narrow-minded Philistines, that your calling is a 
serious matter to you, that you are a true artist. Show it 
by your acting ; come before them proudly, and you will 
see how they will applaud you.” 

“ Waldemar, you are right a thousand times, but my 
parents ” 

“ Well, is not a pastor half an actor ? ” he asked bitterly. 
“ Does he not come before the public, and speak the same 
as you and I, as do thousands of artists every evening ? 
Where is the difference ? Is not the stage also a means of 
educating the people, as well as is the pulpit ? Do not the 
great minds who wrote our dramas waken morality and 
goodness in men — eh, Tosca ? What have you to say to 
that ? Were you engaged at the Royal Theatre, in Berlin 
where thousands applauded you each evening, citizens 
here would take the horses from your carriage, and draw 
you along in triumph ; and your adopted parents would 
be proud of you, and give you their blessing. But you are 
ashamed of your lowly beginning, of the travelling com- 
pany, and forget that the way to the summit of fame 
leads over thorns and thistles. Your enthusiasm, your 
strength, is not sufficient. Go to your patroness who 


Dangerous Ground. 


2 95 


wishes to buy off the director ; let her take you back into 
the shallow water from which you were so glad to escape ; 
forget what you have experienced, and do not trouble 
yourself as to what is to become of me. I must do 
without ” 

Hasty steps rushed down the path. Then a cry, as 
from a poor, tormented heart : “ Waldemar, do not go ! ” 

A light figure ran after the man behind the dark 
bushes, and in the next moment, not three feet away 
from me, she held him in her arms, speechless, sobbing. 

“ You will stay with us?” he asked, threateningly and 
yet tenderly, while I drew behind the pillar, as far back 
into the darkness as I could. 

“ Yes, yes ! ” she sobbed. 

“ With me, Tosca ? ” 

“Yes — always ! ” 

“ And you will play to-morrow ? ” 

“ Yes ! ” she cried out, “ because you wish it.” 

Then he raised her in his arms violently, and kissed her 
as though he would suffocate her, and he hurried past me 
with his beautiful burden, almost running. I heard the 
garden gate close, and then all was quiet. I clutched my 
forehead, and shook my head. Will she — will she really 
play? But, of course, as matters are — oh, the unhappy 
child ! 

Now the notes of a piano, fearfully out of tune, ring in 
my ears, coming from the garden room, while not at all a 
bad tenor voice sings the sad little song of Koschat : 

“Deserted, deserted, deserted am I ” 

Incapable of listening longer, I return to the house and 
to my room. 

On the table, near the lamp, lies a note. I open it, and 
laugh as I read it. In most polite words, the director 


296 


Dangerous Ground. 


informs me that he has finally decided to dispense with 
Miss Korinska’s services in case madame is willing — and 
now comes a demand, which cannot be excelled in bold- 
ness. 

Well, Martha has decided ; this affair is arranged. To be 
sure, I have heard nothing from her, I only overheard her 
words to another ; and I will assure her that I am ready to 
do everything — for Elizabeth’s sake — to buy her off from 
appearing here. With the note in my hand, I climb the 
stairs to the upper story. The lamp up there has gone out, 
and I have difficulty in finding the door of the attic room 
which Martha occupies. Without hesitation, I turn the 
knob and enter. The girl sits on the edge of the bed, half 
undressed, and has unbraided her hair to comb it. At this 
moment she reminds me so vividly of the charming child 
of former days who would come from the beach with loos- 
ened golden waves of hair, while Elizabeth would pull at 
my dress as soon as I tried to express my admiration at 
the sight. 

“ Aunt ! ” she cries confusedly, and springs up. 

“ Well, child, I bring you some good news,” say I. “ The 
director will consent to an agreement — you need not 
play.” 

She has hastily taken her white gown from a chair and 
hangs it up. When she turns her face to me again, it is 
crimson and her eyes look past me. “ Oh, aunt ! ” is all 
that she says : she tries to speak, but cannot. I can recog- 
nize her mental conflict in her twitching face. 

“ Well, Martha ! ” I ask, “ did you understand me ? You 
need not play. It only depends upon us.” 

She bows her head, and clasps and unclasps her 
hands. 

“ Aunt,” says she, scarce audibly, “ pardon me for troub- 
ling you. I have changed my mind ; I will play.” 


Dangerous Ground. 


297 


You will play, Martha ? What has made you change 
your mind so soon ? ” 

Her pale lips move, but they do not utter a word. 

I turn abruptly to go, but she holds me fast by the gown 
and kneels before me. “ Aunt, do not go like this— do not 
go like this — I must play, do not ask me — I must." She 
cries this quite desperately, and crawling after me on her 
knees, she continues breathlessly : “ Ah, do not curse me ; 
I can not do otherwise, I must play. It was so wrong 
for me to refuse ; they must all see that I did not run away 
for love of adventure, that I am in earnest with my profes- 
sion. 1 Wholly, or not at all,’ father always said. “ Oh, 
God ! what can I say, that you may forgive me ? ” 

“ Bethink yourself, Martha ; you always confided in 
me ! ” 

Again her tearful face flushes deeply. She lowers her 
head, and, as though she were ashamed, draws one of the 
golden locks of her hair over her face like a veil. 

“ Well, Martha, have you, besides your love of your art, 
no other reason for the terrible sorrow you will cause your 
adopted parents ? ” 

She remains immovable. “ No ! ” she finally whispers. 

“ Then good-by, child ! ” 

I free myself from her hastily, and the door-knob slips 
from my hand, so that the door bangs loudly and the walls 
echo. I hear her once more cry within the room : “ Aunt, 
oh, aunt ! ” But I am so excited that the mournful sound 
does not touch my heart. Down-stairs I seat myself at the 
table, and w r rite to the manager that I regret that I cannot 
accept his offer, as Miss Tosca von Korinska is now firmly 
resolved to appear to-morrow evening. 

For a long time I wander around the room and tell my- 
self again and again : “ Martha is lost ! ” I imagine her 
married to her lover, and travelling with him from one 


2 <)& 


Dangerous Ground. 


place to another, in hunger and misery, her passion for art 
vanishing with necessity and anxiety, and her artificially 
formed enthusiasm dying into ashes so soon, ah ! so soon. 
And how she will pine for her childhood’s peaceful life. 
They are fearful scenes which rise to my mind. And then 
I see her again, laughing in spite of the sadness of this life ; 
she has stripped off her purity and goodness ; she takes 
life as it comes, with all its wretchedness and evil ; she has 
become like her mother — unendurable thought. 

Is there no help ? May she not really become an artist, 
a great, gifted artist ? Have not our first actresses risen 
from insignificance, from the school of a travelling com- 
pany ? 

I resolve to go to see her play to-morrow ; I will smooth 
her path for her if she has even a spark of talent. Sud- 
denly I remember with joy my acquaintance with the direc- 
tor of the Royal Theatre in B , and resolve to introduce 

the child to him ; I will do everything for her. I will be 
good to her. Have I a right to demand to know her 
sweetest secret ? Is it an unheard-of thing that a beauti- 
ful fiery girl should love ? Shall I make more difficult 
this poor child’s path, which at best will be full of thorns 
and nettles ? 

I blame myself severely, and ask myself : “ Anna, was 
that your boasted patience, when you left the poor child in 
anger?” And the scene rises so plainly before my eyes — 
the little attic room, the beautiful creature, her magnifi- 
cent golden hair floating around her, sitting on the edge 
of the narrow bed. I see her anxious eyes, the tears on her 
flushed cheeks. I see the withered laurel wreath on the 
white-washed wall of the poor room, and the broad pink 
ribbon hanging down. This scene is like a chapter from a 
romance. And half asleep, I whisper : “You poor child, 
wait — I will help you ; I will speak to Mr. Steinkopf for 


Dangerous Ground. 


299 


you — he will forgive you ; perhaps your father’s blessing 
will bring you good fortune.” 

Then I wake. The director’s words ring in my ears : 
“ She has not a spark of talent ! ” — bah ! the man depre- 
ciates her talent merely because she wishes to leave his 
company. Ah, heavens ! That unfortunate engagement 
at the court theatre ! 

Now I am wide awake. I will speak to her fiancd. “ She 
must not go there ! ” I say half aloud and firmly, and then 
I lose myself in plans for the child’s future, and finally 
fall asleep. 

The next morning I awoke quite late. On the table 
near my bed stood a dewy fresh bouquet of. May-flowers 
— evidently Martha had been in the room. 

As I drew aside the curtains, I saw a cloudy rainy sky, 
the mountains in the distance wrapped in mist. Before I 
finished dressing, I wrote a letter to Mr. Steinkopf and 
sent it off at once. And as I prepared to go to church, 
the answer came that he would call that afternoon. Eliza- 
beth had one of her bad days, and my appearance might 
shock her. 

I went to church with umbrella and waterproof, and as 
the pastor entered the chancel, I had difficulty in recog- 
nizing in those grief-stricken features the old face ; and 
the voice, too, sounds differently. It is no Whitsun sermon 
which is preached to the congregation. The text is : “I 
will pray the Father, and he shall give you another Com- 
forter, that he may abide with you forever.” He spoke 
of the gloominess and sadness of earth ; described the 
condition of people, their relations to each other. A sad 
picture was presented — a state of misery and evil de- 
picted in glowing colors. The faithlessness, the loveless- 
ness, the ingratitude of men, he dwelt upon particularly. 
There was scarcely a sound in the crowded church. 


3 °° 


Dangerous Ground. 


“ But the Holy Ghost, the Comforter,” he continued, 

“ must punish the world for its sins, must proclaim the 
truth, before He can comfort. We do not like to hear 
the truth, we like to be deceived, to drink deeply from the 
intoxicating cup of temptation.” 

The congregation was not accustomed to hear the 
preacher, usually so mild, speak of punishment ; this could 
be seen from their faces. When, in the second part of his 
sermon, he spoke of the peace which was poured out to- 
day upon all peoples, he spoke wearily ; it seemed as 
though his strength was gone. 

I returned sadly to my inn. It still rained. I could 
scarcely make my way between all the vehicles which stood 
in the courtyard. The inn was full of people. My room 
being not yet in order, the chambermaid excused herself 
with the many guests who had come for the theatrical 
performance. 

“ That is because of the bad weather, ma’am, and then 
because the young lady is to play.” 

“ Send Miss von Korinska to me.” 

“ She is at rehearsal ; I will tell * her as soon as she 
comes from there.” 

Shortly before two, Martha enters my room. I scarcely 
recognize her. In the bright light she looks fairly old ; 
her eyes are dull, and surrounded by dark rings. 

I ask her kindly whether she will dine with me, for I 
pity her. She sits down, but does not eat — only drinks 
two glasses of wine, which send a flush to her cheeks. Her 
toilet is untidy, as yesterday, but I have not the heart to 
reprove her. 

The director, at my request, has reserved for me the lit- 
tle proscenium box. I tell Martha ; she changes color. 
“ I think I cannot play as usual to-night,” is her answer. 
I speak of my plan to have her thoroughly trained for her 


Dangerous Ground. 


3 ° 


profession. She looks at me gratefully, but makes no 
reply. 

Beneath my windows now ring out loud hurrahs. A 
wagonful of students has driven up. They seem already 
somewhat intoxicated, and demand a dining-room. Host 
and waiter stand among the rain-wet fellows. Laughing, 
they finally all enter the house. 

The waiter soon after appears, excuses himself to me, 
and then turns to Martha with a smile. “ The young 
gentlemen have invited all the members of your com- 
pany to dinner, miss.” 

She turns pale. “ Thank you, I have already dined,” 
says she, and her eyes flash scornfully. 

“ But they threatened to hang me if I did not bring 
you back with me, miss,” says he, and smiling knowingly, 
he adds : “ And Mr. Raimund, too, said he hoped that 
miss would come.” 

She looks at him angrily, and points to the door. When 
he has gone, she turns from me and goes to the window. 

“Who is Mr. Raimund ? ” I ask. 

“ The ‘ lover ’ of our company,” says she in a smothered 
voice. 

“ Has he a right to send you such a message ? ” I ask 
remorselessly. 

“ No ! ” says she shortly, and presses her forehead 
against the cold, damp window-pane. 

When she turns at last, she complains of weakness, and 
says she will rest awhile, and also has something to do to 
her costume. Old Miss Fuchs does not understand about 
it, and probably after dining would be incapable of sewing. 
She goes, after kissing my hand, and I say : 

“ Child, have courage.” 

At the moment she enters the hall, a shrill-voiced woman 
cries : “ I suppose you think it wrong to amuse yourself 


3° 2 


Dangerous Ground. 


on Whitsunday ? Always exclusive, always prudish ; you 
will see what will come of it. Raimund is quite angry 
with you. Do not draw the lines too tight with him — they 
might break ! You are no better than the rest of us.” 

“Old Katharine ! ” I think, “ this time your philosophy 
is at fault, for here, angels and demons fight for a poor 
human heart.” 

In the afternoon the pastor writes me that his assistant 
had suddenly been taken ill, and consequently he is so 
overburdened with duties that he cannot keep his promise. 
Will it be convenient for me to see him that evening ? 

I answer : “ No, but to-morrow at any time.” 

The evening finally approaches. As the distance is 
quite long, I set out at a quarter of six. In the park, 
under the dripping trees — the rain has ceased — there is 
quite a crowd. All flock to the theatre. Near me 
murmurs the little stream ; the water is muddy to-day, 
and has risen to the top of the banks, while it rushes 
by quickly, so that one could actually become dizzy 
from gazing down at it. A few students, their faces 
flushed with drink, hurry past me. I hear one say : 
“The deuce! look at the people. The Temple of the 
Muses is decidedly too small to-day ; there will be a 
jam ! ” 

From my box, the door of which I lock — I purchased 
the right to do so from the director, for a nice little 
sum — I see that every seat in the house is already 
taken, and the thought occurs to me : Will not the 
gallery — there is but one — and the dress circle give way, 
and crash down upon the heads of the unfortunates in 
the parquet ? The little theatre is so rickety, it should 
have been pulled down years before. Everywhere are 
laughing faces, curious glances ; only in the midst of the 
dress circle is the empty ducal box, whose curtains of 


Dangerous Ground. 


3°3 


faded red velvet are held together by the ducal coro- 
net. Every other seat is occupied, and more and more 
people flock in. Scolding voices are heard. In the 
orchestra, among tbe musicians, who can scarcely move, 
sit the lively students. Most glances are turned to 
where sit the dignitaries of Borndorf : stately, corpulent 
women, whose faces now express contempt and scorn ; 
pretty young girls with anxious, curious, or satisfied looks, 
and in the background the gentlemen, armed with opera 
glasses. 

At last a bell rings, the musicians play as overture a 
selection from the “ Flying Dutchman ” until it seems as 
if one’s ears would split, then the curtain rises, and Faust’s 
study is presented to view. Whether Faust — I recognize 
the young actor who met me yesterday on the steps, and 
on the play-bill is Mr. Raimund’s name — plays his part 
well, I cannot tell. I have but one thought : Martha. 
The director plays Mephistopheles, and the part could not 
be played better. The words rush by my ears as the 
stream outside rushes on. Once, during a pause, I even 
think I can hear this rushing of the stream. And it is true. 
I remember that not far from here the waves rush over a 
dam. 

Gradually the air has become suffocatingly hot. Some 
lamps have been turned too high, and the smoke almost 
takes my breath away. 

Finally a pause — or is it the second ? The orchestra 
plays the Faust waltz. Suddenly my heart seems to rise 
in my throat. I cannot look at the stage. Then familiar 
words ring in my ears : 

“ My fair young lady, will it offend ” 

Now I look ; there she stands and gazes at Faust, her 
head turned aside. Never in my life have I seen a more 


3°4 


Dangerous Ground. 


lovely Gretchen : the character is seldom such an embod- 
iment of innocence in looks and carriage. But her answer 
does not sound curt and repellent. She speaks the words 
dully, nor does she walk away with quick, elastic step, as 
an insulted girl would. Slowly, as though she could not 
lift her feet, she staggers across the stage ; the train of her 
sky-blue dress, with the brown velvet band on the edge, 
drags slowly after her. I see, as though in a dream, the 
slender figure with the beautiful blonde braids ; it seems 
to me an eternity before she disappears. There is whis- 
pering all around me, and from among the students comes 
even a single “ Bravo ! ” 

I can scarcely breathe. What will happen ? Is it 
shame which so paralyzes her ? Is she ill ? The scene 
comes in which she stands before the mirror and braids 
her hair ; again the voice is like that of a talking doll, the 
gestures those of an automaton. But now she seems to 
control herself ; she is fairly bewitching as she finds the 
jewels and adorns herself before the mirror. Suddenly 
she glances at my box ; she breaks off in the middle of a 
scene ; it seems as though she would fain support herself 
as she clinches her hands. 

“ That may all be — ” 

she repeats. 

“ Very well and good,” 

cries the prompter, so that the whole theatre can hear, and 
she goes on. 

I smile at her. 

“ Bravo ! ” cries a student ; the others begin to applaud, 
and a coarse, loud laugh comes from the gallery. 

“ Silence ! ” cries some one in the parquet. 

The scene with Mephistopheles, Martha, and Gretchen 
drags on. Only once does the latter’s face change, 


Dangerous Ground. 


3°5 


and with overwhelming truth the words come from her 
lips : 

“ Alas, that mortals so unhappy are ! ” 

Then she comes in on Faust’s arm. In looks she is 
wholly the timid child who loves for the first time, but her 
acting is shy and lifeless. It seems to me now that Faust 
is dissatisfied with his partner ; several times he whispers 
to her hastily, and for a moment a gloomy look replaces 
the prescribed expression of rapture on his face. In vain 
she says, in a weary voice : 

“ I feel too well, a man of so much mind 
In my poor talk can little pleasure find.” 

Barely her finger tips rest on the man’s arm. The other 
couple pass on, and Gretchen once more comes to the 
front. Faust says : 

“And thou forgiv’st that liberty of late. 

That impudence of mine so daring, 

As thou wast home from church repairing ? ” 

And she answers : 

“ I was confused, the like was new to me ; 

No one could say a word to my dishonor.” 

“ Nothing, except that you were somewhat infatuated 
with an actor,” growls a coarse voice from the gallery, and 
at that moment it seems as though the storm broke loose — 
a furious hissing and cat-calling, the tramp of hundreds 
of feet. The police rush in, and vainly try to call the 
people to order. There is an indescribable confusion. 
The Borndorfers are avenging their pastor ; the students, 
their declined invitation. 

Gretchen has vanished from the stage, I did not see 
how. Only Mephistopheles stands there, and vainly tries 
to speak. As he does not succeed, the curtain falls. The 
dress circle has been emptied ; the respectable audience 


3°6 


Dangerous Ground. 


leaves the parquet. Only I cannot move ; I sit there as if 
under a spell, and hear the noise. 

“ Go on ! Bravo ! Da capo! ” Hisses and calls. 

Finally I rouse myself and go out into the corridor. The 
door to the stage is open ; I go down the little flight of 
steps and stand behind the scenes. Mephistopheles is 
raging; the girl lies in the arms of an old woman, breath- 
ing heavily, great drops of sweat on her brow. She looks 
past me ; she is deaf to the director’s insults. She only 
stares fixedly at Faust, who stands in front of her, in his 
shabby, purple velvet costume, pale under his paint, 
trembling with rage and passion. 

“ You shall go on, you shall go on at once ! ” cries the 
director meanwhile. 

She stretches out her hands to the man who only yester- 
day had embraced her and kissed her. Then something 
shining flies into her lap, and Faust turns away ; the little 
shining object rolls from the folds of her gown to the floor 
and partly across the stage, and stops near the prompter’s 
box. It is a plain gold ring. All this occupied but a 
second’s time, scarcely any one saw it ; only the girl’s eyes, 
which have become more and more staring, followed it. 

The director, who may have seen that she was unable to 
play, thinks he has found the proper moment to hurl his 
scorn unrestrainedly in her face. 

“ You do well, Miss Tosca, to leave the stage — forever. I 
think you would scarcely amount to mediocrity. You can 
go to-day, if you like ; the salary due you ” 

“ Sir, I beg you ; ” I interrupted him furiously ; “ do you 
not see that she is ill ? ” 

“ Madame,” he hissed, “ you have nothing to do here.” 

A policeman told me that I must go, as no one but the 
company was allowed on the stage. In a moment I find 
myself in the lobby of the theatre. 


Dangerous Ground \ 


3 ° 7 


The audience inside still rages. I can do nothing but 
get my cloak from the box and go away. As I go out into 
the dark night, it is at first impossible to see anything, but 
at last I find the way. On this side of the building it is 
quite deserted. I did not choose the main entrance. 
The stream falls over the dam, so I turn to the right, to 
make a circuit of the building ; the lights from the stage 
shine out into the darkness. 

Then it seems to me that a door opens behind me, and I 
turn. Did not something light just then vanish into the 
darkness ? I pause, but my eyes cannot pierce it ; but for 
an instant I fancy that I hear above the rushing stream a 
human voice’s cry. 

“Nonsense,” I say, “I am excited.” I force myself 
to be calm, to go on. The night- wind rustles through 
the tall tree-tops above me, the water at my side gurgles 
and murmurs so strangely. Have I taken a wrong path ? It 
is quite lonely here, and terror and foreboding come over 
me — a terrible foreboding. 

Behind me I hear hurried steps ; a man with a lantern 
•comes running after. I hear his panting breath, in spite of 
wind and water. 

“What has happened ? ” I cry, exerting all my strength. 

He calls something to me, but I do not understand a 
word. 

Trembling with excitement, I arrive at the inn— who 
knows how long I have been on the way ? The host stands 
in the hall, surrounded by a crowd ; as he sees me, he 
comes up to me. 

“ Madame need not be disturbed,” he says, “ she will be 
taken to the vault in the churchyard at once.” 

I go on — I do not need to ask who is to be taken at once 
to the vault in the churchyard. 

Old Katharine is waiting for me outside my door ; the old 


3°8 


Dangerous Ground. 


woman sobs pitifully. “ Madame,” she cries, “ forgive her ; 
she could not help herself ! ” 

“ Ah, Katharine,” I say, “ another must judge here ! ” 

She gazes at my face, and goes away sobbing. She may 
see that I cannot speak. But in my room stands the pas- 
tor. We press each other’s hands silently ; he can weep. 

“ I loved her very dearly,” he says. “ Had she but 
come to me, had she thrown herself in Elizabeth’s arms, 
instead of those of death, we would have forgiven her a 
thousand times.” 

“ And Elizabeth ? ” I ask. 

“She suspects nothing ; she never speaks of her, but she 
has often expressed a wish to see you, Anna. Pray come to- 
morrow morning. You will find a sweet, quiet martyr who 
has no longer a wish upon earth.” 

The old knocker on the door of the parsonage rattles as 
it used to ; an elderly maid takes me to Mrs. Steinkopf’s 
room, and from her seat by the window rises a dainty little 
figure, and beneath her snow-white hair shine the dear 
blue eyes of my Elizabeth. 

“ This is sweet of you, Anna,” says she quite calmly ;• 
“ nice that you come ; you will stay with me for a little 
while ? ” She takes off my hat and cloak, and orders some 
refreshments. I sit opposite her as I used to do, and gaze 
out upon the street and the old church. We speak of our 
youth, we speak of her three darlings in the churchyard ; 
she says she would be so glad to die, to find rest and peace, 
but not a word of Martha. Nor is there a picture of her 
anywhere, or anything that could remind one of her. 

We go into the garden, and wander up and down under 
the linden-trees in silence for a while. I fancy that*I must 
see a light dress, blonde hair shining behind the bushes, or 
that a girlish laugh will break the dreamy silence of this 
old garden. Nothing of the sort. The garden is almost 


Dangerous Ground. 


3 ° 9 


uncannily solitary, only the hum of innumerable bees is 
heard in the blooming lindens above us. 

Then Elizabeth asks me if I will help her make a wreath. 
And she plucks ivy leaves from the old wall, and white 
roses, with a faint pink tinge, from a bush which is covered 
with them, and they are as delicate as the face of a young 
girl. And as we sit in the garden, and I hand her the 
flowers, she says suddenly : 

“ Anna, you must not think that I know nothing. I 
know all, only I do not wish to speak to my husband of it. 
He loved the child so dearly, and for this reason I dare not 
weep. He will overcome it easier.” And she nods to me 
pleasantly, though the corners of her mouth twitch. “ Will 
you take her that from me ? ” she asks, when we have fin- 
ished the wreath ; “ it is a greeting from the garden of her 
youth.” 

I try to speak, but she will not let me. 

** Never mind, Anna; she is saved from the wild life. 
She will be forgiven for seeking her home before she was 
summoned. I have forgiven her all.” And drawing a long 
breath, she adds : “ Something like peace has come over 
me since I know that she sleeps.” She lays down the 
wreath. “ It must keep fresh until you go, Anna.” 

“ She did not go without bidding me farewell, Anna,” 
Elizabeth begins again. “ Night before last, as I could not 
sleep with anxiety and heartache, because I had learned 
during the day that she had come here with the company, 
and was to play here, I rose and went to the window of my 
bedroom. It must have been about midnight, and the 
moon shone out from behind the clouds. At first I saw 
only the old pear-tree on the lawn. It was oppressively 
warm in the room, and I opened the window. It was a 
wonderfully beautiful night, but close as though before a 
thunderstorm, and the nightingales were singing every- 


3 IQ 


Dangerous Ground. 


where. Suddenly I saw a figure leaning against the trunk 
of the tree, and gradually I distinguished a white arm 
thrown round the trunk, and the white face and bright hair 
above. And I saw how her eyes gazed fixedly at me. 
Motionless, as though carved out of marble, she stood there, 
and I stood equally spellbound at my window, and thus we 
gazed at each other, for how long I do not know. 

“ What thoughts rushed to my mind during these 
moments, Anna ! It all seemed so strange to me, as 
though it were no longer our old garden — as though an 
abyss yawned between the house and the tree. I longed 
to raise my arms, and could not, to cry : * Come back ! 
come back ! ' But it seemed impossible ; how could she 
have crossed the chasm ? And as I stood there, and felt 
the perspiration standing in great drops on my brow, and 
was yet incapable of moving, and saw only the silent, 
longing gaze, the arm was removed from the tree, and the 
figure, still with head turned toward me, went across the 
moonlit lawn. Now I could recognize her so plainly, as 
she must have recognized me, feature for feature, and then 
she disappeared behind the bushes in the direction of the 
garden wall. I heard her climb over the low wall — she so 
often did that as a child — heard the rolling of little stones, 
and light steps dying away in the distance, and then I 
could call : ‘ Martha ! Martha ! ’ 

“ But there was no answer. Only my husband woke in 
alarm, and tried to calm me, and would not believe me. 
He said it was a delusion ; they all think I am ill, but ” 

She broke off, for her husband came, and we then 
talked of this and that, but our hearts were not in our 
talk. 

Late in the evening I carry the wreath away with me, 
but the grave-digger will not let me see the sleeper. “ I 
will attend to it,” said he kindly ; “ do not look at her, 


Dangerous Ground. 


3 11 


ma’am, keep her in memory as she was yesterday — she 
looked so lovely in her blue gown.” 

As I stand there a man comes up — I scarcely recognize 
in him the Faust of yesterday evening. He looks so grief- 
stricken, as though he had grown twenty years older in the 
night. I turn to go, when his voice rings in my ears : 
“ Ah, madame, one word ! ” 

Of course, I follow him into the churchyard walk ; it 
is quite dark here, but I can distinguish the man’s hand- 
some profile. He has taken off his hat, and brushes the 
hair back from his forehead. Evidently he seeks suitable 
words of introduction. 

“ Madame,” he at last begins hoarsely, “ you knew her 
well, and I may tell you that I — ” here he pauses — “ that 
her desperate resolve was my fault. But,” he interrupts 
himself, “you probably do not know that Tosca was my 
betrothed ? Of course not,” he hastily answers his own 
question. “ She would not tell you, although I begged 
her to do so. She loved me, and yet she was ashamed of 
me before you. And I forced her to play in this unhappy 
place from vanity, from fear of losing her. I thought at 
the last moment she might return to the parsonage — 
then she would have been lost to me ; but it would be quite 
different were she to appear on the stage here. I told her 
to choose between me and remaining away from the stage, 
yesterday evening — I — I dragged her half fainting back 
upon the scene, when her strength left her, and when she 
broke down there at the roughness of the audience — no 
longer master of myself, I threw the ring she had given 
me at her feet. I do not know how it all happened ; per- 
haps I thought my anger would rouse her pride, and in- 
duce her to play — I cannot account to myself for what I 
did. I should have known long ago that she could not 
stand on such dangerous ground ; she was not suited to 


312 


Dangerous Ground. 


us, to me. But 1 would not believe it ; I loved her madly.” 
I cannot reply, and walk silently beside him. Suddenly 
he stands still. “ And what else is there to say ? ” he bursts 
out roughly. “ She is dead — I cannot bring her to life 
again, were I to give my life for it — I led her away from her 
father’s house ; I drove her to death — I ” 

His pale face, usually so melancholy, at this moment 
wore such an expression of passionate grief that I was 
frightened. I wish to speak a few words of comfort, 
and grasp his hand, but he shakes me off, and goes in 
great strides to the entrance of the churchyard, and I see 
him disappear behind the iron gate. 

The sexton’s wife comes slowly up to me, and takes the 
wreath. 

“ He must have been her lover,” says she, “ for until 
now he has scarcely left her since she has lain there. It 
is really terrible the way he speaks to her, and begs her 
forgiveness again and again, as though he were responsible 
for her death. One sees so much misery, ma’am, but I 
never saw anything like that before.” 

The next morning, quite early, they bury her. As I 
stop at the churchyard in my extra post-chaise an hour 
later, the spring sun has already withered the wreath on 
her grave. I stand beside the mound for a while, and then 
go across the quiet green churchyard to my carriage. 
The postilion cracks his whip, the horses start off, and 
after we have passed the churchyard wall he blows a song 
on his horn — a gay song. 

How suited it seems to the dewy, sunny spring morn- 
ing ! In the forest the green fir-trees shine like emeralds, 
and the young beech leaves become almost transparent in 
the golden rays. Slowly the carriage rolls uphill. Once 
more I turn and gaze down at the little city, the two 
slender church spires, and the dark gables of the parson- 


Dangerous Ground. 


3*3 


age. I know that a quiet woman, out of whose life all 
sunshine has gone, now sits at the window, and I fancy I 
hear the words she spoke yesterday : “ Something like 
peace has come over me since I know she sleeps.” 

Under an almost bare oak-tree at the edge of the road 
sits a wanderer. He stares fixedly down at the city. 
Involuntarily I bow, for I recognize Martha’s betrothed. 
But he turns his head, he will not see me ; his lips quiver, 
and the hands, busy with his valise, tremble. 

Slowly I drive past. 

The little city grows farther and farther away ; the wide 
world lies before me. The morning breeze fans my 
cheeks as I reach the summit of the mountain, and dries 
the last tears as though to console me. “ Do not weep, for 
she is safe. She no longer walks on dangerous ground 
— she sleeps ! ” 






















* 































- . • . 













♦ 












* 






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29. FOUR DESTINIES. By ThiIophile 

Gautier. 

30. WITH COLUMBUS IN AMER- 

ICA. By Elise L. Lathrop. 

31. BEYOND ATONEMENT. By Marie 

von Ebner-Esc hen bach. 

32. THE CIPHER DESPATCH. By 

Robert Byr. 

33. A FATAL MISUNDERSTAND- 

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Illustrated with Photogravures. i2mo, cloth, extra, $1.00, or in illuminated paper 

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3. A RUSSIAN COUNTRY HOUSE. 

By Carl Detlef. 

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5. WAS IT LOVE. By Paul Bourget. 

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7. HER PLAYTHINGS, MEN. By 

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8. JENNY’S ORDEAL. By Leon de 

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2. THE HAND OF DESTINY. By Ossip 

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3. ONE YEAR. By M. S. Schwartz. 

4. THE SCARLET LETTER. By N. 

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7. THE IRONMASTER. By Georges 

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